Harry Potter and the Broken Oath
by The Wayland Smith
Summary: Time changes many things. There was a man who fought injustice once, a man who fought for freedom. They say he died a hundred years ago, but there are plans laid to break the long held truce and there are enemies at every turn. Will the legends of the past arise to face the need? Will they sink forever into oblivion? And if they do rise, then whose side are they on?
1. There was a Boy

**Disclaimer: **I didn't write this, it's just a coincidence that I typed the letters in a random order which happened to be this. Yes I am a monkey in a room filled with monkeys and typewriters, I just happen to be the one with a computer, the one who wrote the complete works of Shakespeare is over there with the banana. This belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N:** Many thanks to the magnificent Sonicdale who graciously agreed to beta this story for us all. I can assure you that it is only his hard work which has made this readable. As a warning to readers the formating works best in Times New Roman otherwise the italics sometimes blur together.

If you have time constructive criticism is welcomed in any reviews. I really want to improve my writing, both for your benefit and my own.

I am posting a version told largely in the first person on Harrypotterfanfiction.

**HARRY POTTER AND THE BROKEN OATH**

_The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,_

_The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,_

_Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,_

_And after many a summer dies the swan._

_Me only cruel immortality_

_Consumes ..._

_Tithonus, _by Lord Alfred Tennyson

**Chapter 1**

**There was a Boy who was a Wizard**

_Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for._  
Dag Hammarskjold

It's been a long time since I saw anyone you know.

Well, sorry, that isn't quite true, I mean anyone _magical_. Just little old me, or not so old, more's the pity. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn't made the bargain I did. I thought it was the best option, I'm not so sure anymore.

Time makes cynics of us all - well it didn't make one of Sirius, though that's ironic really. Sirius, the dog who wasn't a cynic …

I'm rambling aren't I? It happens when you get old, well older. It's like talking to yourself, you might say. Still, it's one way to keep sane.

I suppose there is only one way to start a story isn't there? And this really _is _a story. Shakespeare wrote, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."

I can definitely say that I've played my part for good or ill. For some reason I never expected that being in purgatory would give me the chance to read Shakespeare. I really ought not to talk like that, Wales isn't so bad. Purgatory is more a state of mind than a place really anyway.

Nevertheless this is a story, a proper yarn. It is action packed, filled with adventure, love, duels, death, mysteries, magic and betrayal.

Oh yes, lots of betrayal.

_Once upon a time__then_, _there was a boy who was a wizard. _

_The boy was an orphan and lived with his aunt and uncle. The boy did not have a happy life with them as they were cruel to him and favoured their own child. _

_On his eleventh birthday he was whisked away by a kindly giant who brought him into a magical world.__The boy made many friends and went to a magical school. All was not well though, for in the shadows of the world there lurked the shade of a dark wizard who hungered for power above all else. _

_The wizard had lost his powers many years ago when trying to kill the boy. The wizard hated the boy – Fate had decreed that he should be his nemesis until the very end. Time and again the evil wizard tried to kill the boy and regain the power he had lost, but each time with the help of his friends and mentors the boy thwarted his enemy._

_The dark wizard planned and schemed a return to life and waged a terrible war against the land of his birth, the boy, and the allies who stood against him. Many fell on both sides._

_The boy mourned at first, but his heart slowly hardened. It began slowly as he chose to take risks for greater gain, gambling the lives of his friends, weighing them in the balance – assessing the worth of children, of allies, of loved ones._

_For a time the tide changed, but the enemy was immortal; or so it seemed. The Dark Lord had protected his life through the darkest of magics, and he was mighty in battle. _

_Where he walked, the boy's allies fled, when he spoke his own servants shook in fear. The boy became a man, a warrior. A warrior who fought, the only one left who would stand his ground against the darkness of the night, against the enemy. The boy hunted down the anchors to life the enemy had made, destroying them one by one._

_At last his followers, the forces of the light, fought against those of the dark wizard outside the throne room the Dark Lord had built for himself. The boy faced his nemesis alone._

_It was not the end. They could not kill each other, and they knew it, for the boy was an anchor himself, doomed to live unageing through the aeons. Yet he alone could slay his foe and so they were unable to kill one another, bound by wand, blood and soul. So the boy made a bargain, a deal with the devil to protect the innocent, though the cost was high. _

_And then he disappeared, his friends were left to live out their lives, banished from the land, his love lay in a tomb far away from the tracks trodden by man. Over it all the enemy ruled, bound by his oath and his fear of death._

_He found that to rule was less than he had expected and he left the throne so much blood had been shed for, content with everlasting life and his own power. Times changed, new people took power, some things changed, others did not. _

_Those who had once resisted died, some by __accident_,_ some from old age. Few were left to remember the past. The world moved on._


	2. Remember Me

**Disclaimer: **If I told you I owned this I'd have to kill you … wait that isn't right …

**A/N:** There are some adult themes mentioned in this chapter, but the section they are in will be headed and ended with three asterisks. Once again thank you very much to Sonicdale for being the beta for this story.

**Remember Me**

_The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities._  
Sophocles

It was the third of March, a beautiful early spring day. I could hear the birds chirping in the trees surrounding the meadow as I laid the flowers on the worn, granite boulder. I doubt there's much left of her under it now, but somehow it seems right to bring them anyway. Meadowsweet and heather, simple flowers, wild flowers. I remember carrying her body here after the battle, burying her on my own amid the waving grasses, placing the boulder over the grave. I would say that when I'm gone she'll be forgotten and so I can't let myself forget her, move on from her, but it would be a lie. She has been forgotten, as so many of us have been, but that isn't the reason I can't move on.

I turn away from the great, grey, stone and walk across the field, tears run down my face as they always do, but I don't wipe them away. They are good, clean things, sometimes I imagine they might be slowly washing away the stain on my soul, though I know that they aren't. It runs too deep for that. _Ah gods you're a whiny one aren't you?_ I think to myself.

The wards send a shiver down my spine as I pass through them, they need touching up, I can feel them slowly unravelling. Some of my earlier work, I left them mainly for sentimental value. Though to be fair it might be better to simply let them dissolve, it would be much harder for anyone to find the place if it were completely normal. Sentimental value as I said. I spin on the balls of my feet vanishing with a painfully loud crack. _Tut tut Harry not paying enough attention to what you're doing_.

The shop is as quiet as ever as I appear back inside it. I stretch and pick up the keys, opening the door I begin to carry out the baskets, filling them with the fruit and goods for the day. I glance up to the sign hanging above the door, the words _Tom's Shop founded 2016_**,** are plainly and simply emblazoned upon it, gold on green. The paint is new and fresh, though I need to varnish it, so many little jobs, so much time. I'll get round to it tomorrow, it isn't urgent. I sigh, straightening up to greet the vicar and her wife as they pass by.

"Hello Tom," she replies, "lovely weather isn't it?"

"Beautiful. Much planned today?"

"Oh Sally and I are just off to help with some of the lambing, but not much, will we see you in Church this week?"

"You know I never come," I grin, it's almost a long standing joke by now, her father used to ask the same question, his father before him come to that. Vicars of the same parish for three generations, now that's dedication.

"I _know_ you never come, but my father always said never to give up. To give up on a sinner is the worst sin of all he always thought, God rest his soul. Though I'm not sure whether that means I really need to try with you."

"Oh more than you might think," I answer breezily, I can't say I'm in the mood for consideration of my sins today, though it costs nothing to be polite to her, she means well in any case. "Still, take care with the lambs, I hope it goes well. If you see Ted remind him about the order."

"Will do, bye for now," and with a wave they're off. A sweet couple if a touch too well meaning.

I'm settled back in the chair, God, gods or whatever, I love that chair. In the shop the bell jangles loudly. I look up from the book I'm reading, _The Mage and the Mouse: Theories of Transfiguration a Collection of Essays in Memory of H. Granger-Weasley. _The dust jacket has a photo on it, an old, old woman, with long white hair which seems to burst from her head like an explosion of thistledown.

The man who enters the shop is so obviously magical that I'm frankly amazed he hasn't been arrested for breaking the statute of secrecy simply by walking around. His eyes flick from side to side as he enters, evidently looking for threats, assessing though, not nervous. A thick bristling, black, mustache shakes angry spears of hair at me from his upper lip. Probably an auror, or one of the "enforcers", possibly a soldier back from suppressing the rising in Jersey, I think that was recent anyway. "Plain" clothes, well by wizard standards in any case, so either off duty or …

"Good morning sir," I say brightly, "anything I can do for you today?"

"Are you the proprietor of this establishment sir?" He replies, the tone businesslike and self-important his voice deep and authoritative, if slightly threatening, almost a growl.

"Yes … can I help you?" I slide my wand out into my palm, the movement hidden by the counter.

"We believe so, the Minister wants a word. Though," he pauses for an instant, "I fear I may be looking for your father, is he around?" The man, definitely an enforcer I'd say though mainly one of tiny rules, glances meaningfully towards the back of the shop.

"No, just me, I'm older than I look," I reply, suppressing a grin, he raises his eyebrows as if he disapproves of people looking young.

"And your name sir?" He asks, formality incarnate as he draws a small pad of red paper from his robes, words in black ink crawling over it, I should have spent more time learning how to read upside down. The man would be a better plain clothes cop if he went round with a neon sign attached to his head with the words "I am an undercover cop" etched on it, seriously stating the unbelievably obvious must be his only chance at deception.

"Tom."

"And your second name?" comes the sedate reply.

"You've come looking for a man and you don't know what he looks like or his name? You have to be joking." I roll my eyes in exasperation.

"Your name sir? I need to verify your identity."

"Nemo, are you happy now? Tom Nemo. Though if you actually _think _about it you might realise that I could tell you that almost anything was my name. How about this: my name is actually Jeremiah Obadiah Jackanory Jones, contrary to appearances I am a seven foot tall man of African descent with one leg and an eye patch?" I don't like people interrupting me reading, yes, I know I'm a grumpy old man.

"Levity is not appropriate, sir. Would you mind signing here to complete the process," it is a statement, not a question, he obviously isn't accustomed to people disagreeing with the Ministry's officials. Things never really change do they?

"Would you like it in blood? Or will a biro do?"

"A biro will be adequate."

"Thanks _so_ much, I hate the sight of blood on an empty stomach, puts me quite off my food." I sign with a flourish, even now the name creates a flutter of amusement.

He scans the paper for a few seconds, taps it with his wand and folding it neatly before placing it inside a pouch at his waist. I stand behind the counter awkwardly as he proceeds to pull out a thick, parchment envelope addressed with emerald ink (what is it about wizarding authorities and green ink?) and hands it over.

"Why not send an owl?" I ask as I rip it open.

He looks shocked, poor bugger, "We haven't used owls since the Scumthorpe incident, thirty years ago."

"Oh sorry, slipped my mind, give me half a tick while I read this and I'll give you a reply," his eyes bulge at the implication that I might say no to the Minister. If I'm not careful I'll give this chap a heart attack before the day is out.

The letter itself is rather short, typically, if you use parchment or good quality paper these things do tend to be rather bulkier than they actually are.

_Dear Mr Potter,_

_You are requested to attend upon his most sublime and infallible grace the Minister for Magic of Great Britain and its empire upon the fourth of March at two p.m. precisely in his rooms at the Ministry to discuss matters sensitive to the security of the state. Others in attendance may include the Right Honourable Professor emeritus of the Higher Arts, His Lordship; the Head of the Department for Magical Immigration, Tiberius Nott; the Chief Warlock of the Wizangamot, Livia Malfoy; the Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, Algernon Moncrieff, and the Principal of the Unspeakables._

_You are hereby warned that to bring any offensive items into the chamber will result in severe penalties, this includes wands._

_You are hereby also warned that to refuse this invitation will be regarded as an act of treason and will be punishable as such._

_Please send your reply with the messenger, Gerald Filius Peasgood, Enforcer of the Crimson Band. A prompt response is expected._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Ursula Umbridge_

_Junior Assistant Undersecretary to the Minister_

_Holder of the Hereditary Order of Merlin Third Class._

I suppress the sour taste in my throat, the list of names is proof that if nothing else money talks and that cream isn't the only thing to float. I thought I'd been forgotten, pushed to the side as one of those little events which didn't happen in their version of the world. Why the hell are they calling me up, and putting me in the same room as 'His Lordship'? They must either have gone mad or decided that the Apocalypse is upon us and we should start early. The entire business smells more rotten than a fishmonger's slab in high summer when it's been left out for a week. Still, doesn't mean I have a choice … I pinch the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb.

"Tell them that I'll be there," I grind out, and it looked like it was going to be such a nice day too. He turns to go obviously eager to leave the shop. I have that effect on some people, I was once told it was like being around a cheery dementor when I got angry, and I'll leave what _that's_ like up to your imagination.

"By the way, Gerald, if I were you I'd call in sick tomorrow," I call after him, poor sod could probably do with a break. No-one ought to be caught up in whatever is going to happen, he nods, clearly terrified. The shop bell jangles and he's gone.

Sometimes I used to think of just leaving the magical world, living a life among the muggles, non-magical folk (NMFs) I ought to say, old habits die hard. Once you're in though there is no "out", it's till death do us part or nothing at all, it soaks into your life. How have I lived in the same village long enough that three generations of muggles have known me and yet accept me as a young man? Magic, oh yes, see the man with the burning green eyes? See how they twinkle as he pulls the coin from behind your ear? Watch him closely, you can't see how he does it? Well then it must be magic. A corner shop in a village where almost everyone shops at the local supermarket? How does it survive, the owner must have the Devil's own luck … and so life goes on. Magic is a part of you and you can't give it up, and it seems those who want to own it won't give you up either.

I pack quickly, an old rucksack soon bulges with stuff, sleeping bag, tent, food, clothes, a book or two, I'm too old to give up my creature comforts. It's better to be safe than sorry. I drag the wares back inside, leaving out the perishables with a note to Meg, the vicar, that she can take them and give them out as she wants, I'm off for a holiday. Damn, didn't varnish the sign after all, have to make a new one when I get back it'll be warped as hell, presuming I get back. Just got to pop over to the pub to ask one of the lads to look after the old place and I'll be off, be just like old times if only …

* * *

The Dragon's Gulch (a name which none of the locals were either particularly sure how the pub had acquired, or were very certain as to the meaning of) was not particularly busy, as a tall dark haired man came in. The barman paused in polishing the already dazzlingly, clear, glass in his hand.

"Hi there Tom, how you doing? Didn't expect to see you in till later," the barman smiled before turning to put the glass back on the shelf, he had never been able to meet his friend's piercing green eyes for long, for some reason they unnerved him.

"David, just the man I was looking for, would you do me a favour?"

"Sure. As long as it doesn't involve any chickens this time, seriously after _that _incident I'm fair terrified of the birds, won't even eat 'em for lunch …" he dragged himself out of his reverie, "What is it you want though?"

"Just keep an eye on the shop for a bit, make sure there aren't any break ins and so on. Though if you see anything going on there don't go over, I wouldn't want you getting hurt. Here are the keys if you'll take them."

"Aye, I will. Are you off on holiday then?"

"Yes, don't know how long for though, could be quite some time. Oh and feed the cat if she turns up would you?" the dark haired visitor asked, slapping himself on the forehead.

"You know as well as any that I wouldn't let Ginny starve. Have a good trip mate."

"Thanks, take care."

So it was that Harry Potter stepped out of the Dragon's Gulch, walked quickly to the edge of the village of Snatchwood and was never seen there again by any living man. For years the barman tended to the shop, and his son after him even took it over.

Stories were occasionally told about the original owner, Tom Nemo, who it was said had turned up out of the blue in the early days of the twenty first century, carrying with him a bag filled with treasures from around the world and a past he would never speak about. The stories were always, as the adults pointed out, impossible, sometimes amusing stories of how he had met a cat who yowled at the Moon and disturbed the village until he tricked her into only yowling when the Moon told her to, out of politeness; or the tale of how he had once tried to sew on his buttons with string for extra strength but ended up snapping the buttons and was forced to go around with his clothes tied together for months.

There were other stories too, stories of how in the middle of a blizzard he had rescued a young girl stuck on the mountains; how those who did him favours found their luck strangely improved, of the young woman who had been cast out by her fundamentalist family for having a child out of wedlock, but shared her last few pennies with a strange young man and had been given a bag of golden coins and a necklace set with a fiery ruby which was always warm to the touch.

***Some stories were darker, only told among the adults, how a man who had forced himself on a girl and escaped the charges was met in the street by a figure with emerald eyes. The figure had warned him to face justice and when the man had laughed at the demand, and boasted that he would repeat the crime until the girl longed for death he found himself walking to the police station and not only confessing to the crime, but to many other deeds he had committed until the list of charges was so long that he was put away for life in a prison and in time died there.***

Children when afraid at night would call on "old Tom" to protect them against the nightmares and the walking folk of the night. It was notable that the church service there was unique in always giving up a prayer for "old Tom", for as they said he might have claimed to be a sinner to the bone, but he was the most Christian man that village had ever known.

**A/N: **In answer to the reviewer's concerns I can state that any first person moments will be petering out. This section is mainly to set his character up.

By the way, all the idioms, styles of speech and so on and so forth which might be expected to change after a hundred years have changed. I'm just translating for you.


	3. The Ministry of Lies

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. It belongs to You-Know-Who.

**A/N: **You may notice that one character in this chapter is referred to by different names depending upon from whose point of view and what time period the section is written from and about, the reason for this should be self evident.

Thank you to Sonicdale for being kind enough to keep this story from making no sense whatsoever.

**The Ministry of Lies**

**_or _**

**The Ministry of Bad Faith**

_Remember, there's always something cleverer than yourself._

Merlin in _Excalibur_

Harry appeared on the shining, snowy, marble in front of the Ministry help desk with a crack, a swish and an attempt at an engaging smile. The security guard stared at him in open mouthed astonishment, looking more than a little like a fish. Harry grinned, if only he had brought a camera … flabbergasted was a word he very rarely felt could be applied to anyone, or any expression. This was one of those times when nothing else would do.

"Hello," Harry said brightly, attempting to dispel any injury to the guard's pride, "do you mind telling me where the Minister's office is? I seem to have an appointment there in," he checked his watch, dramatically and unnecessarily. He had timed taking the invisibility cloak off to the second in order that his appearance should be simultaneous with the crack of magic. "Ten minutes ago and I'd hate to be later still."

"Um …" the man hesitated, obviously shocked by the apparent apparition through Ministry grade wards. "It's just that way, sir," he began weakly, "go past the fountain of the Empire's Sacrifice and straight ahead. You can't miss it." The feeling that there was something he should have asked played across his features as the tall young man gave a nod of thanks, spun on his heel and strode off down the hall in the direction he had pointed, long coat billowing around him. _**Rule one:**__when entering enemy territory without stealth be impressive. __**Rule two: **__make sure you are wearing armour._ The coat satisfied both rules.

Harry slipped between Ministry workers, revelling in the disapproving glares shot at his muggle clothing. No-one of class would have dreamed of being seen in attire so utterly non-magical, let alone as antique as the twentieth century coat and trousers. As Harry observed_, if you can get away with it why not do what you like? And if you can't get away with anything? Then __**really**__go for it._

As he passed down the atrium he took in his surroundings. Whoever was currently in power certainly had style, he'd give them that, even if it was ostentatious and power hungry style. The room resembled an Atlantean ball room. White pillars of quartz swept from the floor curving like gulls' wings to rest against the walls and support the impossibly high ceiling. Their edges tapered to knife edge slices of rock at their peak. Reversed flying buttresses, beautiful, impractical and pointless. Ornamenting the vaulted roof itself, living trees sprang from the pillars, each tree representing one of the lords of the reformed Wizangamot. Around the trees painted unicorns, dragons and griffins, flew, cantered, grazed, roared and fought according to their dispositions. The notable absence of phoenixes was yet another sign of how times had changed. Harry was rather pleased, not to mention thankful, that his little ruse had put the guard off for long enough that he had avoided handing over his wand or name. An impossible apparition was bound to attract less comment than the appearance of one of the last phoenix wands. Particularly _this_ phoenix wand and its equally infamous owner. Probably.

The fountain had changed too. The grim monument of the war years was gone, rather in its place stood a tall, white marble obelisk constantly washed over by water bubbling from its crystalline tip. Around the base of the pillar ran words in gold leaf: _Those who have fallen shall not be forgotten, they gave their lives to make us free. One land, one blood, one magic._ Upon the rest of the pillar circled countless names, some of which dated back to the war, a few caught Harry's eye as they spun past. _Pansy Parkinson_, _Blaise Zabini_, _Ginny Weasley_. The words were there for a second before they were lost once more in the maelstrom of bronze letters. Harry bit back the taste of bile in his throat as his jaw clenched involuntarily. To remember them all as one, as if they had died for a single cause, as if there was only one side to take. It was brilliant in a way, brilliant and callous. He couldn't say that he regretted sequestering himself from this world for so long.

He slid past a couple of blue robed animal handlers carrying a crate marked in scorched letters, _Research Material: CENT127_, and continued on up the hall ignoring the groans the crate emitted. Ignoring the noises with an effort. They are after all just one more reason to torch the world. Perfect marble slabs rang with footsteps. It was almost possible to believe that nothing had changed since the old days. He sank into the crowd, letting himself be swallowed up in the tide of people as it ebbed and flowed around him. It was easier said than done, a tall man in outlandish clothes is rarely invisible, but Harry was a master at vanishing, the trick was not precisely magic, more in fact the absence of magic, becoming a void where few wizards would look. It was a trick that only those who had spent a lifetime battling with mastering occlumancy, step by small step could achieve. As talents went it was useless most of the time, it had no effect whatsoever upon muggles, but to a wizard it made one little more than part of the landscape.

Fifteen minutes late to the dot he pushed open the door to the antechamber of the Minister's office. He decided upon later reflection that he wished he hadn't as he was greeted with an icy glare by the woman behind the desk. She was squat and middle aged, her neatly coiffed, brown, hair was threaded with grey and loomed over her head as if she were merely a poorly drawn cardboard cut out. Her clothes were regulation Ministry robes, save for a sprig of plumeria flowers at the breast. The predominant feature of her face was an engrained scowl, like that of a bad tempered cat. She drummed her wand on the desk in a short, repetitive rhythm. From her perfectly ironed robes to her impeccable nail varnish she bespoke efficiency and competence.

"Mr Potter?" She asked in clipped tones, her tongue clicking in disapproval. Harry shifted uncomfortably, it was if she regarded his presence as a mortal sin.

Harry grimaced at the use of his name but decided not to deny it, "Who else? I presume that you are Ms Umbridge?"

"_Mrs_, thank you very much. You are late," each word was punctuated as if struck from a typewriter, "the meeting was set to start fifteen minutes ago."

"Was? _Please_ don't tell me I delayed them."

"Was. I can ease your mind, you have not delayed them at all. The Minister guessed you would not arrive on time. He re-scheduled the meeting five minutes after the message was sent to you. At the moment the room is mostly empty. You may go in if you wish," she smiled sweetly, though her eyes flashed. Either she was imagining poisoning him or it might have been a hint that Umbridges can possess a sense of humour.

Harry felt a wave of irritation. "Ah, how … fortunate. I'll just go in," he took a step forward and paused. With that hint of a sense of humour he had to know, "I'm sorry to ask, but you aren't family of Delores Umbridge are you?"

The woman tilted her head before answering, considering the question, "I am her great-niece. But her family? No, I think not."

"Right, um, thanks?" Harry's reply came out as a squeaky question, and he decided to beat a hasty retreat. Somehow he felt as if he had been summarily routed by this woman, being put in his place by anyone was not an experience he had any intention of getting used to. He tried one last ditch attempt to save face if nothing else, "I'll just go in then. Have a good day."

"I wouldn't do th... oh what's the point," she muttered, turning back to a report. Harry had already surged past her and barged through the doors to the conference room. Doors so ornate that they might well have been lifted from Buckingham palace before the fire.

While the doors opened impressively enough he was disappointed when they swung shut with no more than a soft click. There was only one other man in the room. He was seated towards the far end of the long, mahogany table, a glass of water beside him as he leaned back in his chair, two legs of which hung off the floor. A book was held up in his right hand obscuring the majority of his face, save for a neatly combed head of brown hair so dark that it was almost black. Even in repose his figure spoke of a lazy grace. A hand snaked out and snagged a biscuit from a nearby plate.

"Harry Potter, it has been some time," the voice was unmistakable, cold, cultured, deadly. Harry took a step backwards, his body working on instinct. His wand appeared in his hand so fast that it might as well have been summoned. Even after all the times they had met he never knew whether to be prepared for something or not. Oath or not things were liable to get ugly. The memory of the incident in Istanbul flashed through his mind and he took another step backwards, almost pressing his back to the door.

"Tom," Harry replied, spitting out the word like a piece of gristle, "long time, no see." He sat, pointedly taking a seat as far away as physically possible. His wand stayed drawn, albeit stowed under the table.

"I think you'll find your seat is here," replied the other with that same icy politeness, pointing to the space opposite fromhim with one long finger, ignoring Harry's words. "Apparently the Minister is very fussy as to where we all sit."

"What, even you? I'm surprised you aren't at the head of the table to be frank," answered Harry, refusing to move as he took the opportunity to needle the man who might be described as his opposite number.

"Even I. Come and have a biscuit, they are not poisoned. In fact they are quite nice. Do leave the chocolate ones though, I'm quite partial to them. Don't just sit there and sulk, it's bad form, and worse it's a sign of weakness. As you should have realised the moment you entered this room, childish tantrums are worthless. Our old friend has quite the deck of cards up his sleeve."

"Really?" asked Harry, reluctantly moving to sit opposite the man.

"Oh yes. You don't think just anyone could keep _me_ waiting around do you? Either he is very stupid, which we both know isn't true or else he'd have tried to kill us now that we're in the same room together; or he knows exactly what he is doing, and probably won't be taking risks."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Something of a false dichotomy there wouldn't you say? What if he's bluffing?"

"He's not. You really haven't been keeping up with the real world have you? Have a biscuit and be a good boy. Whatever this charade is about we'll know soon enough."

A retort died in Harry's throat as the doors swung open again and an old man, with silver hair, still carrying the traces of light gold in it strode in. His robes were heavy and impressive, elaborately embroidered. A thick, silver chain of office hung around his neck, and a fur cloak billowed around his shoulders. He had changed more than Harry could have guessed. The man who was once there had gone, not that Harry expected to like the man any more than he had.

He was flanked by two identical women in dark, sleek robes, each with long, white-gold, hair. They each had matching, high cheekbones, and a certain frozen beauty although they could hardly be younger than fifty if they were a day. Both of them bore the blood of Malfoy with the usual pride. The only difference between them was that one also wore a cloak, complete with a deep cowl. Two men followed, one a huge, hulking figure with close cropped black hair and a broken nose; the other a small sandy haired gentleman who wetted his lips with his tongue every few moments, his hands twisting at the black leather gloves he carried. Ursula Umbridge, the woman who had first greeted Harry entered last, taking a place in the corner, behind a small desk. She held a quill pen ready over a notepad, which to Harry had a distinctly non-magical appearance, but maybe things no longer counted as non-magical once they were old enough.

Harry's companion still failed to look up from his book, but as the newcomers seated themselves he shut it with a snap placing it carefully upon the table. For a moment Harry expected him to speak, although it would hardly have been his style. Instead he seemed to be minutely examining the grain of the wood, his eyes downturned, running over it with loving care. The silence stretched out, the room hanging on his whim. At last the Minister coughed, and sitting up steepled his hands, thin papery skin stretching over the knuckles. A delicate gold ring glittered on his left hand.

The man's head snapped up from his examination of the table, his voice colder than a clear midwinter day. "You dare to keep Lord Voldemort waiting, Draco?"

The Minister's companions shuddered at the name. Harry could not honestly blame them. There _was_ even now something fundamentally wrong with it, a cruel, cold harshness in each syllable which would as happily skin a man as shake his hand. Draco replied evenly, words slipping like gossamer thin threads of sound into the silence of the room, "Still playing the same old tune my lord?"

Voldemort, or Tom as Harry insisted upon calling him curled his lip derisively. "So little fear Draco? I could break you with a thought. Remember, you belong to _me_," his hand flicked towards his wrist.

Draco chuckled dryly, "You can't threaten me, my lord." He tapped his chest weakly. "Just try your trick. It _will_ kill me and this old thing will give out, and _I'm _not afraid of death. In the end it comes to us all."

"So, give me a reason not to kill you, give _any_ of us a reason not to kill you. I'd bet a galleon to a knut that each and every one of us is carrying a wand."

"I'm sure some of you could kill me before I drew my wand," Draco answered mildly, a triumphant smile creasing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, "however, you _won't_. If I die this government crumbles, the people want a soft leader, if they get one the European Alliance will sweep in and destroy us, even now they're gathering for war. You may not be able to die, but can you be beaten? The French will, I'm sure, be happy to imprison you for the rest of your existence. I hear they've built a prison even ghosts can't escape. Apparently it was built specially for you. They still want Normandy and Brittany back, your little war cost them quite a bit. _Leave this,_" the implication that if he did not he would be humiliated obviously did not escape Tom.

He considered it for a second before sagging imperceptibly. Then straightening he spoke, "For the moment then you live. What news do you bring?" He waved his hand towards the Minister _permitting_ him to speak. Even if Draco had won a victory he would be damned if he let him have it all his own way, and for once Harry was on his side.

Smiling pleasantly as if at a society event Draco gestured to the rest of the room. "Allow me first to introduce us all, I fear apart from me only a few of you have acquaintances in common." Overriding the hint of excruciating boredom clouding Harry's face he continued without concern, pointing to the cloaked woman on his left, "this charming lady is the Head of the Unspeakables. I am afraid to say that this is not the face which they would naturally possess, but rather belongs to my lovely grand-daughter, Livia Malfoy," the other woman nodded. "Our large friend is Tiberius Nott and his companion is Algernon Moncrieff. I would advise you to make sure he never has any reason to ask you any questions. I am sure you are aware of their different roles within the Ministry. As to our other companions," he nodded to Harry and Tom, "they are rather reclusive individuals, you have all heard of his lordship. Our other friend is somewhat forgotten," he smirked, "the one time terrorist, Harry Potter."

A few eyebrows were raised in surprise at his presence. Algernon and Tiberius seemed puzzled by the name rather than interested, as if they could not quite remember where they had heard it before.

"Thank you for making sure we can all be friends, but would you actually get on with it?" Harry inquired impatiently, drumming his fingers on the table, looking anywhere but at Tom.

"Very well, on with the show. Livia, my dear, would you like to explain the problem?"

"Certainly, Minister …"

"And please make it short, I have some groceries to sell and I wouldn't like to keep my customer's waiting," interrupted Harry again. He had never felt that politeness was something which enemies really needed to receive. If anything it probably made them feel justified if you were rude. Harry would have hated to be inconsiderate, it just wasn't his style. Livia glowered at him, he threw his best Gilderoy Lockhart smile back at her.

"_As_ I was saying," she continued with a glance around the table, "the situation is this: the war with Argentina has occupied the majority of our forces, and many of the rest are still putting down the rebellion in Ireland. Meanwhile the European Alliance appears to be reaching a consensus that war is their only option. The descendants of the exiled muggleborns and the current political refugees are stirring up discontent, the High Council in Prague feels that we need to be brought into line with the rest of Europe. Partially because they don't want any more forced immigrants. At the moment they are trying to persuade the members that war is necessary. We need to swing the balance against this. If we can make them delay long enough that a peace treaty with Argentina can be ratified we may have a chance of," she paused, apparently searching for the right words, "_peace _and _security_."

"So? Where do we fit into this?" Harry had a sinking feeling in his stomach, the type of feeling which tells you someone has just decided to pour a truckload of nifflers in heat into your vault.

"One of the most influential of the hereditary members of the council is the Grand Princess of Baden-Württemberg. She has some pro-pureblood sympathies, and for the moment she is dilly-dallying between the sides. Many of the lesser members are hanging on her decision. We are sending the pair of you, as two of our most powerful citizens as envoys." She announced it as if it ought to be a great honour. For a moment Harry froze in horror.

"WHAT?" Harry exploded up from his chair. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"Calm down Potter," Draco sighed, his face a mask of patience. "I know you hate us, but honestly you don't have a choice. The oath you swore with our friend over there pretty much forces you to go with the Ministry as long as you don't have to actually fight in the army. The two of you are virtually unkillable, and secondly _unmissable_ should the flames of war actually start up." He paused, obviously taking pleasure in speaking to Harry as if he were a child. "In other words we can afford to lose the two of you and we don't want to risk anyone else. Remember if they win they'll either kill you two or lock you up forever. Also, I think there's something you might want to know, carry on Livia," he waved his hand at her to let her carry on.

Livia took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching her fingers, Harry supposed that as the grand-daughter of a dictator and one of the highest ranking officials in an autocratic state she was not used to being interrupted. "While the Princess has some pureblood leanings, she also has a large muggleborn population in her province. There is a slight problem in that recently a number of muggleborns, half-bloods and even some muggles have disappeared in the vicinity of the northern part of the Black Forest, including one Ambrose Fairechilde, grandson of Hermione Jane Granger-Weasley. Part of your task would be to lend your unique expertise and prowess to finding those who have gone missing. It will help to calm the public and allow the Princess more leeway to vote against war."

Harry flopped back into his seat as if his strings had been cut, _Help the government? Merlin help me_. Across the table Tom scowled. "You expect me to _help_ mudbloods?"

Draco looked at him, grey eyes shining like wet steel. "If you do not wish to be turned over to the French, then yes."

* * *

_The Black Forest_

The wind moved through the trees drawing rattling breaths from the branches. Dark moss crawled over the wood and rocks, those parts bathed in the few stabs of ochre light were, it seemed not lightened but intensified, to rich, velvety black. Here and there the first golden leaves swung earthwards as if held aloft by invisible pendulums. The backpacker paused and pulled the rucksack from his shoulders, letting it fall to the forest floor with a soft _whumph_. He sighed, closing his eyes and basking in the serenity of the forest, the shade made it a touch cooler than he might have liked, but if anything that in itself was a blessing. The discomforts of this walking holiday had reinvigorated him. Thirty years working in the city had left him grey and drained, had left him feeling as if the life had been sucked out of him. However, the holiday had reminded him of who he had been in his younger days. Now in the first year of his retirement he had rediscovered the fresh flush of excitement and adventure he had buried in exchange for promotion. The bruises and scraped knees acquired on his walks were worn as proud badges of the fact that he was free.

He pulled out a bottle of water and took a drink, the water sparkled with golden light in the sun's rays. It was slightly too warm and tasted like plastic. He grimaced and pulled out the salami from a pocket in the rucksack, wiping his hand on his soft cotton shirt to get rid of the water. With a large and complicated Swiss Army knife, whose functions were by and large completely incomprehensible to him, he took a slice of it, and cutting off the rind popped the salami slice into his mouth. The slightly spicy, salty taste bit into his mouth, obliterating the unpleasant tang of the water. He wiggled his toes in his boots; the movement was unnoticeable yet indescribably pleasurable, he was longing to find a stream and bathe his rather sweaty feet.

A branch broke like a gunshot behind him. It was a large branch by the sound of it, _very_ large, and the thump was a dull, heavy shake which made the leaves in the surrounding trees tremble. He spun round, but there was nothing in sight, shadows stretched from the trees, thick and dark, for a moment he felt as though he was being watched. He peered into the darkness, a thought flickered through his mind, _Were there wolves in the forest? Bears maybe_. He couldn't remember. No, it simply couldn't be a wolf or anything of the sort, the sound had come from high up, probably just an oak dropping a branch or something, it happened sometimes. Lucky he had not been nearer to it really. He shuddered at the thought of being crippled and alone in the forest.

A shadow passed over the trees, blocking out the remaining sunlight, turning the pleasant twilight into an almost impenetrable gloom beneath the trees. He fumbled in his pack and drew out the map. The thin black lines were barely visible in the twilight and he cursed his stupidity for taking a break when he was so close to the end of that day's walk. Still he could not be far from the he just got to a clearer part of wood he'd check the map again or dig out that old clockwork torch, it would not do to become lost in the forest overnight. The path was still relatively obvious and so, heaving his rucksack onto his shoulders once more, he began to hurry along it, dodging overhanging branches and hopping over the network of roots that here and there, criss-crossed the floor of the wood. Twigs snapped under his boots and the smell of the vaguely damp forest floor permeated the air. Above, the first few heavy drops of rain began to fall, bouncing off thick leaves and plunging down to the earth.

A few minutes later he was standing by a ford, clear water shifting and writhing over the stream-bed. On the other side tangled pine trees stood, a webbing of old, thin, branches barring any sight. The trees were dark and bore more than a passing resemblance to a giant wall of stakes, surrounded by barbed wire. Their brooding shadows reached towards him, stretching out fingers in the gloaming. The rain was still merely pattering down, but with the suggestion that before long it would be much, much heavier. He dreaded the thought of putting up a tent in this weather. Perhaps there would be a cabin or such like he could rent at the campsite, he fancied the idea of curling up in a proper bed, maybe even popping down to see if there were a restaurant too. If there was restaurant of course and the rain continued, he would be forced to resort to just eating whatever left overs he had from lunch, the likelihood of it being possible to cook on a camp-fire was close to zero.

He brushed a hand against his forehead, sweeping away beads of rain and cold sweat which he could not remember forming. Rummaging about in the bag he pulled out the torch. Thick knuckles clenched and light blossomed for a moment, yellow and startlingly bright. He set a foot upon the first of the stepping stones, water sloshed around the tip of his boot, he wobbled for a moment and then carefully shifted his weight to the next. A ripping noise rent the air, it sounded as if a tree was being torn in two. It was long, slow and agonising, it was the greatest sound of suffering a tree could make. He slipped, his arms flailed for a moment and his right foot splashed down in the water. The fall was slow and surprisingly gentle, save for the moment his tailbone thwacked against the rocks of the stream-bed. What was worse was that the cold water had instantly soaked his trousers, boots, socks and in all likelihood his backpack with the tent and bedroll. Difficulties and bruises were good fun in hindsight, but in the moment of their occurrence they were a bloody pain in the arse he decided. He swore viciously as he struggled upright and trudged out of the river. The torch was still in his hand and he pulled the lever. It whirred dully, and light sputtered out. The figure on the opposite bank was visible for only a second, but it was enough.

Long, slender arms, shining like polished ebony, or as if coated with wet, black silk, bent towards the ground, almost brushing it. The entire figure was _too _long, elongated and the many jointed limbs stuck out at odd angles as the body twisted. Pieces of what might have been frayed fabric or ragged edged appendages, bramble-like and gently waving, protruded from it. The legs stretched out, disappearing beyond the light of the torch. Although whatever covered the body was sleek, even in the tiny interval between the moment the light sparked and when it flickered out the creature's flesh shifted becoming craggy and rough to mirror to the trees. In daylight without only a split second to see it he might have tossed away the sight as idle, if horrific fancy; at this moment in the gloaming there was no mistake to make. It had been watching him, with beady crow's eyes as he crossed the river. Its legs hooked over the branches to support it like a desiccated piece of fruit. Of the face he could see nothing beyond the glinting eyes.

He tried to cry out, but no sound emerged, he had already screamed without noticing and his lungs no longer had enough air to continue. His limbs were frozen in terror. Across the river he heard a soft sigh of air as if something large had very swiftly descended. A gentle clicking as of many jointed, clawed limbs moving across stones became audible, slowly and carefully moving across the stream. For a moment he hesitated, it is engrained into the beliefs of most humans that things of the sort he had seen do not exist, no matter how many ghost stories we read, no matter how much we fear the night, when we encounter something which is down to the depths of its being unnatural we struggle against accepting it. Struggling with accepting something does not of course mean that we cannot run from it. He picked himself up and ran, shedding the rucksack as he did so, letting it fall to the ground with an almighty crash behind him. He did not try to find the path, instead running blindly into the pine trees. Thin branches whipped over him snapping as he ran. A branch slashed across his forehead, blood dripped down over his eye.

Behind him there was a sound as if something was sliding through the nets of twigs, a faint, rattling, shiver of noise. He stumbled, falling to the ground, raised his head. Ahead of him the pine trees stretched on endlessly. He held his breath, there was no sound, for a second he hoped that he might have evaded it when the long, thick, sting plunged into his thigh and he knew no more.

To his surprise when he opened his eyes he was alive. One might think that this should not have been much of a shock, it is very rare to open one's eyes when one is dead. However, it was. A pain throbbed in his leg.

"Hurgh …" he groaned piteously. A second later he realised something else which surprised him; he was in a room, or a cave, if he was perfectly honest he could not tell which. He guessed it must be a room, as far as he knew there were very few caves of any note in this part of Germany. He would have been wrong, in a sense. There were very few natural caves, but Goblin and man-made caves, or wizard-made caves in this case, were rather more plentiful, if not hugely common. Not that he was aware of goblins at all really.

"I think he's awake," a tall woman with blonde hair and a shallow jaw came into sight. He tried to nod, but found that his limbs were largely immobile. "Definitely awake," she called, "come over and bring some of the antidote. We need him to be able to talk."

"Isn't that evidence enough?" A man's voice, deep and resonating, replied, coming from out of his line of sight. "Kill him and be done with it."

"Stop that, he might just be weak," the woman scolded him.

"Fair enough, here it is, just a drop mind. We're running low, and I don't want to have to milk them any time soon. Do you?"

The woman shook her head, suppressing a shudder, a second later a needle was pressed into his neck and he felt life flow back into him slowly, a numbness over his chest and head dissolving swiftly.

"There we are dear. Now, I've just got one question for you. Are you a wizard?"

"N-n-no..." he stuttered, these people seemed to be calmly discussing whether or not to kill him. Not to mention the fact that they were obviously mad.

"Oh," her expression fell, "that is a pity, Still, waste not want not, eh?" She plunged a dagger into his heart before he could even reply. For a few seconds as his brain shut down he just stared at her, wondering what on earth she had been talking about, and assuming that at any moment he was about to wake up. It was in a way fortunate that he had no idea what was going on.

* * *

Voldemort slid out a slim book, exquisitely bound in black leather, from his robe and began to read quietly. His companion was silent as he leant back against the soft, red cushions, he had been silent since the meeting had ended in fact. It was something Voldemort was profoundly glad for. Not that he was glad about a great deal, it had been a long time since anyone had dared to give him orders, much less threaten him. At least without the person in question suddenly changing their life expectancy to approximately three seconds. At most.

Although the cross-Channel train to Calais was slower than the majority of wizarding transport it did at least provide safe passage through many of the wards the French had placed around Britain, and (more importantly in his opinion) it was almost decadently comfortable. These two features alone made him surprisingly content with wasting his time on it; at least the Ministry had stolen a good idea from the muggles for once. A lifetime's worth of relative peace and comfort had obliterated his once rigidly ascetic lifestyle. He was, of course, still carefully moderate in his extravagances, but he did indulge himself somewhat. There was little point in being immortal he reasoned, if you did not enjoy it. He sighed internally at the thought of his elegantly furnished rooms and the jewel box of a library Malfoy's little plan had forced him to leave behind, not to mention the cellar full of fine wines and his selection of shoes.

His delight in wearing shoes was perhaps the vice which Voldemort struggled hardest to keep hidden, and yet he considered it in a sense the perfect reflection of his victory. The body he had taken on during the war had been both terrifying and more importantly durable. Unfortunately it had also been severely limited when it came to the senses of taste and touch, food might as well have been ash in his mouth, and while he had managed to present an appearance of sinister grace the body's inability to feel more than was absolutely necessary had been difficult to overcome. It had been a problem he had ultimately failed to iron out. This body on the other hand was almost entirely human and he had quickly rediscovered why many humans felt that shoes were a good idea. Once he had begun to wear them he came to feel that they reflected the fact that he had, at least to some degree won, that now he could enjoy life and that this potential for pleasure outweighed the dangers … his hand flicked inside his robe, brushing over a series of small, delicate and ward frosted vials contained in one of its many deep pockets. Recent styles had rendered them more similar to Russian kaftans and he found he liked the change, it certainly made pockets so much more practical. Comforted by their presence he returned to his book.

"So …" the slow word filtered into the silence breaking through his reverie.

He held up a single, long finger until he finished the paragraph he was reading before he looked up. "If …" the word sighed between his lips in exasperation, "you really find it necessary to speak, boy, then _stick to parseltongue_," he snapped, or at least attempted to do so. The sibilant hissing of parseltongue does not, sadly lend itself to snapping; quiet anger, certainly, but not snapping. "I have no desire to let our watchers into our conversation," he continued as he mentally kicked himself. His hand executed an elegant wave towards the compartment door beyond which two of the aurors who had been sent to make sure the two of them followed Ministry orders sat on guard.

The 'boy' rolled his eyes, but complied leaving only soft hissing on the air, "Fine. Though as you well know they could just order me to tell them. You know my side of the oath forces that. It's your own fault for wanting to be king though. Still, given the way you're scowling I have to ask, why not just kill them if you want to get out of here? Isn't that your normal style?" Harry replied, yawning as he watched the dark water outside rush by. If the Ministry had felt showing the passengers the bottom of the English Channel would be interesting they had been very wrong.

"It does not suit my plans."

"Really, or is that you just couldn't manage it? Is that how far you've sunk? Unable to take on a handful of aurors?"

"I would point out that if you'd been in circulation at all you'd know that our guards are probably the most qualified and decorated aurors currently in service. The names Thorbecrombe, Finch and Rosier ring no bells then?" Voldemort sneered, savouring the idea of simply clawing out the boy's throat. Things were so much simpler when you could just kill people for stupidity, or for being irritating, or for trying to kill you. It was not that he took any particular pleasure in murder, it was simply the most efficient way of dispatching people, and people, by and large had no individual value to him which might ensure less permanent incapacitation.

"None to speak of."

"How many do _you _believe you could deal with then? I don't see you escaping."

"I don't know half a dozen, perhaps. Maybe a few more, on my own that is. Depends on the circumstances," Harry replied breezily. "What do you reckon?"

"Oh at least a dozen."

Both men sat back satisfied. Each convinced they had a rough measure of the other, and that their respective lies had passed undetected. Had they but known it they were still virtually entirely equally matched even after all that had past since they had last met.

Voldemort paused, running through the conversation in his mind. "Why all the interest? Seeking to overthrow the government?"

"Hardly, it isn't as if I could, not with the oath."

"If this is a clumsy attempt to persuade me to release you from your oath then you may think again." He raised his book higher trying to indicate that the conversation was at an end, and then the idiotic boy was tugging the book down, bright green eyes looking earnestly at him through the ridiculous wire rim glasses.

"Listen," the boy's voice grated on his nerves, and his wand-hand twitched slightly, "I don't like being lumped with you any more than you like being lumped with me, but we both know that right now we _are_ about the only allies the two of us have. I don't mind about overthrowing the government, but if you want a chance to avoid whatever Malfoy's planning then you need to free me of at least part of the oath."

Voldemort considered it, swirling around the thought for a few moments. He grinned savagely, Harry sat back sharply, the grin widened. "Very well, but under the condition that you alter my oath too, _and_ you have to swear an alternative clause. I will not weaken the rule of three just so that you can go on to break the spell."

Harry grimaced, but did not seem particularly surprised. "Agreed. What is the oath this time? The same type of bonds as before, I suppose."

"Unless death has suddenly become that much more terrifying for you, then yes," the whisper of parseltongue was hardly audible above the whoosh of the train, but even so Voldemort could sense the two guards trying to listen in outside the door. It was not probable that there was another parselmouth among them who might understand the conversation, but then you never knew. "Lock the door."

Harry drew his wand and with a complicated series of knots in the air released a pale mauve spell which sunk into the wood of the door without a trace. A total of twenty-one other spells in total from the two of them left the compartment with a faint glow, a smell of night air and heather and a set of privacy wards complete enough to be unrivalled unless you wanted to try to listen in to a very high class brothel, or maybe sneak a peek at the inner workings of a wardbreaker's encampment. It was not particularly impressive work if you wanted to actually do anything more than prevent eavesdropping, but it should keep the aurors from interfering. The terms of the oaths were finalised quickly, it was hardly as if either of them had much leverage on the other this time. Necessity makes for interesting bedfellows.

"Temporary vows first then?" Harry asked, carefully avoiding pointing his wand at Voldemort's.

"Absolutely. Then the freeing, then the binding." He made sure to hold Harry's gaze. For all his bluster he did respect the boy.

"I Lord Voldemort," he paused, stiffening his resolve, birth names _were_ important in things of this sort, "formerly Tom Marvolo Riddle, swear that for the next thirty minutes I shall in no way try to harm, incapacitate, capture or kill you, Harry James Potter, son of James and Lily Potter." A pale shimmer of light ran over his body like a skin of water before vanishing.

"I, Harry James Potter, swear that for the next thirty minutes I shall in no way try to harm, incapacitate, capture or kill you, Tom Marvolo Riddle." The same magic which pulsed over Voldemort blossomed across Harry's skin. "And I release you from the unbreakable vow which you swore to me, provided you swear anew within the next half hour and it is to my satisfaction."

Voldemort ground his teeth and mimicked Harry's words.

"Very well then, on with it. I'll be the binder for your oath, you for mine." The lights in the carriage flickered dimming as magic surged in the air. The blind whipped down, sealing the compartment from sight. The two of them clasped hands.

A gleaming ribbon of ruby fire curled around their clasped hands from Harry's wand, "Will you, Tom, never kill, seek to kill or imprison me, through your own power or that of others?" Neither side decided to mention that grievous harm was still possible. Sometimes hope for the future can be worth taking a risk. In this case the hope that they might at least be able to beat one another to a pulp was worth the risk that they _both _might be beaten to a pulp.

"I will," Voldemort replied before a tongue of green light curled from his own wand. "Will you, Harry Potter, swear never to seek your own death or the destruction of the horcrux within you?"

"I will," Harry answered, his eyes glittering in the fire light. Ruby crossed emerald once more. "And will you leave those to whom I personally offer my protection, unharmed in all matters and all ways as you are sworn to leave me untouched? So long as you have been informed of this protection."

"I will." Two green, two red, like tiny, bejewelled serpents, coiled tighter. "Will you never kill, seek to kill or imprison me, through your own power or that of others?" Voldemort waited tensely for the answer, despite the fact that Harry could hardly back out now.

"I will." Beads of sweat gathered on their brows. The air thrummed with the conjoined spells. "And will you, Voldemort, swear never to seek to conquer any land or government or people beyond that which you now rule? On pain of your life and existence in this world?" Harry's mouth, despite the strain of the spell twisted in a smile.

"I will," he swore it savagely, though the concession that he could kill muggleborns who the boy had not personally singled out for protection had been as much as he could get it was more than frustrating. The desire to carve his name into the legends of every nation in the world had never faded. "And will you, Harry Potter, resurrect my body should I fall in battle? Within the span of a single cycle of the Moon after you have discovered the fact? On pain of surrendering your immortal soul to me, and servitude and the absolute surrender of your will and body to the horcrux within you and to me?" It was Voldemort's turn to smile, maybe he _had_ managed to squeeze out a few more conditions.

"So I swear."

The magic hummed, burnt a shining white and faded leaving spots dancing behind their eyes. They sank back, a deep, overwhelming feeling of tiredness running through their veins almost instantly, the mental focus, skill and will power required to maintain two such spells in a conjoined casting was immense. Harry's eyes rolled and he sank into unconsciousness, seconds later Voldemort joined him.

* * *

_The sky flashed and burnt with a sinister umber hue above the battlefield. Drops of rain, filled with red dust from the Sahara, fell like blood upon the fighters leaving them bespattered. Harry spun on his heel, an unravelling spell leaping from his wand. He moved on without pause, ducking a blast of light as his previous attack spilled over a Death Eater whose flesh peeled away from his body in bloody strings until only his bones were left. Hermione was beside him for a second, her hair, plastered against her forehead by the rain flicking around her as she slashed her wand savagely._

_"There are too many of them, we should withdraw!" Her yell was almost drowned beneath the roar of thunder. _

_Fire erupted from his fingertips, guided by his wand, engulfing three of them. "I know. Carry on," he grunted out the words as a silver dart hit his left shoulder eating into the flesh. "He's coming. I can feel it. "Rain lashed down drenching them._

_She nodded as she danced away into the fighting, transfigured warriors of grass rising around her, pale green sentinels with paper thin swords. Blood flew from Death Eaters as her warriors spun through the fray, the stalks reforming as blasting curses tore holes through their figures._

_Harry could feel a pounding in his head which had nothing to do with the breaking storm. Far in the sky above something darker than the clouds was beginning its descent. He batted away a piercing curse and returned fire before plugging his wand to his shoulder and sinking to the ground behind one of the standing stones within which the Order had been penned by the Death Eatersas he drew the dart forth. It came out with an angry explosion of pain, barbs which had grown from it tearing the flesh. He winced and tugged his shirt over it, hoping he would not need the arm too much until Poppy could get to it. _

_The Death Eaters were pressing closer, using their numbers to their advantage, some deflecting the Order's spells while others pressed home the attack. Beside him Colin Creevey went flying, his right eye exploding into droplets of blood and tissue. Harry raised his wand letting a thick spike of shimmering light shoot upwards before he rejoined the others in the fighting. One, two, bone-ripper, sidestep, a thrust of power leaving a ragged hole in their shields to be followed up with a nice, wide-bore, cutter. He summoned Colin's body, using it to absorb a deadly, green curse. Harry's jacket smoked in a dozen places where spells had missed by but a gnat's whisker as he spun through the melee._

_Ducking under a wand he brought his knee up, leaving a Death Eater to collapse, grasping at his groin before a quick slice of the wand finished him off. Another closed the ground between them, hammering at Harry with a bone-breaker more commonly known as the hammer of Tartarus. The spell dug deep welts into the earth sending clods flying as Harry leapt from side to side, waiting his moment. One strike, more off target than the rest, provided it and a swift reducto crushed the woman's throat. An inferius which wandered too close, locked in a battle with one of Hermione's grass guardians went up in flames which leapt to its foe. Harry winced as the grass warrior flamed for a second and leapt onto a Death Eater, consuming him in the fire which destroyed it. An Order member threw herself in the way of a curse meant for Harry, the back of her head liquefying, before a swarm of maggots crawled over her corpse devouring the flesh. _

_Harry bit down the taste of bile rising in his throat, instead focusing his rage into a grey whip which slashed across a group of advancing inferi turning their rotting flesh to unmoving stone. He sank to his knees, eyes watering as his head pounded. His vision twisted and the standing stones and battling figures were gone, he could see the earth miles below, storm clouds swirled above, a sea of light, fire and noise._

_The reinforcements crashed onto the Death Eaters like wolves upon sheep, finally. Moody must have moved them into position. The sudden attack from their flank tore through the dark robed figures, leaving their battle line sprawling. Harry tore himself away from the mind of the horror approaching through the clouds. Anti-apparition wards blossomed around those already set by the Death Eaters even as they tried to pull them down. Still they rallied around a tall man, his blonde hair almost red with blood; he duelled with a flawless intensity, deflecting curse after curse, protecting his associates._

_One of the grass warriors slid across Harry's sight as he stood, pushing himself upright. A spray of blood splashing him from an enemy he'd missed as a sword plunged down into the man's throat. Then the sky split open. Fighters from both sides were thrown aside as a dark meteor hurtled earthwards, lightning dashing in its wake, though never striking home. It was as if nature rebelled at the Dark Lord's presence. Harry steadied himself against the stone, barely keeping his feet as a wind tore over him. The wards smashed like brittle glass._

_The Dark Lord landed, bare feet touching down lightly. Smoky, black robes swirled around him as his baleful gaze scanned the scattered fighters. He turned, the seven foot tall frame towering over the other combatants who stood or cowered, frozen in terror around him. His eyes burnt red in the alabaster face. _

_"Harry Potter." It was the greeting he always gave him, never changing._

_"Voldemort."_

_Around them fighters backed away, running for cover. Even the silver masked Death Eaters were running for it rather than stand beside their master. Harry straightened his glasses with one hand and drew his second wand. Voldemort followed his movement. Sheathing their phoenix wands the two squared off. Voldemort moved with deadly grace, his steps fluid, wand held lightly in his hand. Harry half stumbling, his clothes caked in dust, blood and the true trophies of battle, stood as firmly as he was able._

_Harry struck first, spinning in a circle his wandtip glowing as he set fire to the falling rain, a storm of dust, water and fire racing towards his enemy …_

* * *

Harry awoke with a start, sweat pouring from his forehead. He had bitten his tongue and blood filled his mouth. With a grimace he spat it out, wiping a shaking hand over his clammy skin. Across the compartment Tom still slept. He felt like crap. A great steaming pile of crap. His head pounded with an almighty headache. He stood unsteadily and made it to the door, releasing the magic which sealed the compartment. The door slid open easily and he made it out into the corridor.

"Would you mind staying in your compartment sir?" One of the two guards on the door asked politely, the man was tall with light olive skin and a short, dark beard, flecked with silver. "The journey is nearly over."

"Bit my tongue, need to go to the loo," answered Harry shortly, blood still thick in his mouth. He closed his mouth sharply, wincing at the pain as he tried not to let the blood fall to the floor, there was no knowing what some sorcerers could do with something like blood. He must have looked a fright with his bloodstained teeth, but to the guard's credit he did not flinch away.

The two looked at each other, obviously weighing whether they should allow him out of their sight. "Very well sir, aurors Rosier and Aelfholme will accompany you." He knocked on an adjacent compartment and two stiff aurors, one male, one female looked out. He jerked his head at Harry and they nodded, falling into step behind Harry as they set off down the train. Behind them the other guard began whistling a recent hit from the wireless.

The chestnut panelling on the walls of the loo was smooth as Harry steadied himself, washing out the taste of blood, the wave of red water sloshing around the sink before it was gone. The entire room looked more suited to an apartment in an expensive hotel than a train really. The exquisitely polished marble of the sink was somewhat vulgar but not badly done by any step of the imagination. The delicate carvings of goblins and centaurs being slaughtered were rather tasteless on the other hand. It was at times like this that he felt the magical world could really work on moderation, the general mentality seemed to be: we can make it bigger? So why not make it bigger. We can make it with gold? Why not make it with gold, everyone likes gold.

He carefully placed his wand in his mouth, slowly enunciating around the wood. Of the three key elements of magic, focus, skill and will it was the first which Harry had always struggled with most, and the pain from his head was hardly helping. Come to that with his tongue feeling about twice its normal size and his normal capability with healing spells the skill wasn't too great either. Still the spell took, once he pressed his will hard enough against it anyway.

He splashed water over his face before drying it with his sleeve. As he put his glasses back on he noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He might have the body of a twenty-five year old, but the sleep deprivation made him look closer to thirty. He dug around in his pockets and pulling out a packet popped a handful of paracetamol out. He could never decide if the extra resilience which magic and the horcrux gave him was a blessing or a curse, but being able to take half a dozen paracetamol without ill-effect was one of the greatest benefits, given that his ineptitude when it came to potions had left him with a reliance on muggle medicines.

The train rattled over a tiny gap in the sleepers as he left the loo, the door slamming to behind him. It was all he could do not to pull out his own wand and start cursing those nearest to the door, but he was surprised when down the train a score of serious looking men and women popped out from their compartments, wands already drawn. _Guess dear ol' Tom wasn't being too stupid in not trying to fight his way out of this one then_.

They disappeared back into their compartments seconds later once it was clear there was no immediate threat. Harry, one guard behind, one in front was escorted back to his own compartment in silence. He slipped inside gratefully and drew up the blind. Tom was already back to reading his book, whatever it was. Outside the sea was swiftly getting lighter, they were almost on the continent. He considered antagonising his companion before deciding that there was little point. Once you've been enemies long enough it's almost the same as being friends. Well except for that whole 'I'd kill you if I had the slightest opportunity thing.'. You didn't tend to get that with friends.

* * *

**A/N:** If you have questions about the story or the changes to the timeline please post a review or send me a message and I will give answers to any questions which would not destroy any suspense. Many things shall be revealed in time. I will reply both personally and with general notes to answer the questions.

The fight was just one in the war. For those of you who are interested the music I listened to when writing Voldemort's appearance at that battle was Verdi's _Dies Irae_.

I hope you enjoyed reading this.


	4. The Gates of Europe

**Disclaimer: **If I own this I should be making some money from it right? So if I own this I want my pay check, mainly so that I can fight the insanely expensive legal battle that I'll face. What I don't own it? That's lucky.

**A/N: **There will be a translation for those parts in French at the end of the chapter. All translations are courtesy of Google. As I am soon to go off on holiday and I thought you might want a chapter I have posted this a touch earlier than I should as poor Sonicdale has as yet hardly had a chance to look over it. Once I get back I will upload the revised version courtesy of the man who actually makes this work.

The French accent is obviously based on Fleurs.

Finally, a great many thanks to those who have bothered to review. Now, on with the show ...

**The Gates of Europe**

_**or**_

**Problem Solving**

_One thing is sure. We have to do something. We have to do the best we know how at the moment ... If it doesn't turn out right, we can modify it as we go along._

Franklin D. Roosevelt

_Earlier in the Ministry_

The doors to the meeting room shut with a soft click behind Ursula Umbridge as she followed the two men out to where their escort waited. Back inside the chamber the others glanced at one another.

"Do you think it will work, grandfather?"

Draco shrugged, "I honestly can't say, my dear. In any other case? Without a doubt. And that would be before we factor in whether operation Cassandra turns out to be a success." He turned his grey eyes to the Head of the Unspeakables. She shifted uncomfortably under the penetrating stare.

"There is a sixty-seven percent chance of this plan succeeding," she began tentatively before gabbling out the rest, "even should operation Cassandra fail."

"That is remarkably exact," Draco observed dryly.

The woman blushed, "It _is _based upon what we have been able to quantify of their abilities, correlated with the interrogations conducted by project CENT, and other seers. However, it is only a projection, there are a great many factors that we have not been able to account for and …"

"They do have a tendency to defy the odds," finished Draco with a kindly smile. "Not to worry though, none of us are perfect." The woman breathed a visible sigh of relief, sagging in her chair, at least she would not have to bear the blame alone. "Still, I'd like to see you all keep up the good work, no one is indispensable either."

An awkward silence followed his words as the various occupants of the room glanced nervously at one another. While no one was irreplaceable, a fact which the Malfoy government had made abundantly clear with its frequent reshuffles, re-elections and purges of inefficiency, it was equally true that of those in the room only those who were not Malfoy by blood could realistically expect the blame if things went wrong.

"Erm," Moncrieff licked his lips before speaking, splaying his fingers on the table as if he were laying out cards. "while any failure would reflect badly upon us, surely it must be recognised that we few cannot be held solely responsible …"

Draco smiled benevolently. "Certainly. However, much as I would like to pretend otherwise … what is it the Americans say? The buck must roll to a stop somewhere." Either no one bothered to correct him, or they were equally unsure. "No matter what, should this fail the consequences will be _dire_."

Moncrieff sank back in his chair unwilling to stick his neck out further. The silence continued, stretching out uncomfortably. Moncrieff fidgeted, wishing the meeting would end. Unnoticed by anyone but the Head of the Unspeakables, Draco pulled an ornate pocket watch from the breast of his black robes and opened it without glancing at the time. The ticking ran round the room, filling the silence. It was strangely perfect for the room. It was the sort of room in which you expected a grandfather clock to be standing, slowly slicing slivers of time away. The ticking of Draco's watch fitted it like a key in a lock. To the Head Unspeakable it was a nightmare.

She felt her mouth grow dry. The air became warm and heavy, and on the back of her neck hairs prickled. Sounds like this, sounds which simply _fitted_ were something her department had examined at length, by and large they rarely heralded anything good. Around the table she saw the others licking their lips, rubbing their collars, a bead of sweat trickled down Moncrieff's long nose. Only Draco seemed unaffected. He snapped the lid shut after finally glancing at the time and replaced the watch in his pocket, the translucent skin of his hands flexing over blue veins as he did so.

"Incredible," he muttered, his voice, even in the silence almost inaudible. He looked up, starting when he saw the others were still there. "Hurry along now, I'm sure we all have things to do." Behind the grandfatherly tone there was an edge which suggested that if they did not leave then he would find them something better to do. Possibly handling sewage if he was feeling benevolent. They left quickly.

Moncrieff looked up at Nott as they hurried towards the lifts. "Did you feel that?"

"What?" the bigger man asked, terse as ever.

Before Moncrieff could answer a small man ran up to them holding a notepad on which messages were forming at a phenomenal speed. "Sir, sir, would you mind taking this? Your secretary sent it up. There are a lot of memos coming through."

"Thank you …?"

"Weatherby sir," the man said bobbing his head before scurrying away.

Nott nodded distractedly and began flicking through the notepad, half listening to his companion as they moved through the crowd like an icebreaker with tugboat in tow.

"You either know what, or you don't. The Minister _did_ something in there, and I don't know what." Moncrieff shuddered, continuing where he had left off. "Fair gave me the willies though. I don't know, whatever it was it was_ sinister_," he lingered almost lovingly over the last word.

"That has to be one of the most frustratingly obtuse statements that I've ever heard," Nott observed with cool amusement. "Still, yes. I understand. I'm glad I won't have to be back in there any time soon." He pushed his way through the crowds and pressed the button for the lift.

"Yeah, reminds me of the feeling I got on a daemon summoning case down in Kent," Moncrieff began. Nott sighed, it was generally best to distract him before he could get started on one of his anecdotes.

"You know, I have this feeling at the back of my skull that I forgot to do something," he tried; there _was_ something at the back of his mind. He glanced down at the notepad in his hand, beginning to flick through it again.

Moncrieff nodded, "Oh, I know what you mean exactly. Come to mention it that daemon summoning incident was a case in point. You see I figured it out when I was crossing the county border, the internal wards … Nott? Are you quite well?"

Nott had gone as white as a sheet. The huge man was weakly leaning against the wall of the lift as it shot off into the depths of the Ministry. Moncrieff frowned, bringing up his hand to check his friend's temperature.

"You look like you've seen a dementor. What's happened?"

"I knew there was something I hadn't done. Do you think he'd allow me to take the honourable way out …?" he laughed hollowly. The lift slid by another, shooting into the void between floors before plummeting down.

"Come on, tell me what it is and we can sort it out, pin the blame on the bitch from level nine or something," Moncrieff tried. It was a long acknowledged fact that however much the heads of departments might try to stab one another in the back given the slightest opportunity, they would all unite, given the chance, against the Unspeakables.

Nott smiled a sickly smile as the lift slid to a halt on the second level, a sheen of sweat visible on his wide, pale brow, "I think it's rather too late for that, unless those two have a way to get past the French border control without papers."

"Oh. Fu –"

* * *

_Calais, the border with France_

Harry stepped out of the train. Its sleek form was deeply at odds with the hall-like structure which housed the station. The walls, floor and ceiling were made from great blocks of polished granite. Superbly fitted together, they shone in the light cast by the ever burning torches. The structure though arched, looked as if the weight of such a roof should bring it down any minute. Harry shook himself, magic or no magic he did not like being in buildings which resembled caves. Come to that he was not altogether fond of caves in general. The gentle humming of the train vibrated round the cavernous hall, echoing like the chant of a dozen monks; it was not precisely unpleasant, but it was persistent.

"Impressive," remarked Tom from behind him. "Tell me, Thorbecombe, where are we exactly? I cannot say that I have ever entered Calais in this manner before."

"Nor would you have, my Lord," proudly answered Thorbecombe, a broad shouldered man with a neat, military haircut and a short, well trimmed, black beard. He puffed himself up like a peacock at the attention, as he slipped out of the carriage followed by half a dozen other aurors in plain clothes who fanned out behind them. "This station is very recent, I was a guard here while it was being built actually. It lies quite some way beneath the muggle town which is why we could be quite so grand in its design.

"It was part of the treaty with the French to allow some communication between _our_ country and the damned Froggies. This is the only border crossing area we have with them, the station is not just a station, it is _the_ gateway to Europe. We've both got a gate in the wards here, so this is where we'll enter the continent, the station forms a fortress of sorts around them to make sure neither side can take advantage. The granite is even interlaced with cold iron …"

"Fascinating," Tom cut him off, his tone suggesting that it was anything but; evidently the auror captain's passion for local history was not to be indulged.

Harry strolled off down the hallway before Tom could take the lead. There was after all no need to dangle in his wake. It did not take long for Harry to come to a halt, he paused looking around in what he imagined was a nonchalant fashion. Taking the lead might have been a good idea, he thought, it was just a pity that he hadn't a clue as to where to go in order to reach border control. To the sides staircases spiralled off, up and down, curling away into the building. It felt as if he had been trapped in an ancient, buried, cathedral. He shivered.

If he had hazarded a guess as to where to go he would have chosen the passage to the front, but he hardly wanted to be dragged back by the aurors. It was hard enough to ensure that he and Tom were on an even footing as it was, without looking a fool. He peered up at a nearby sign, wiping away dust from his glasses. Behind him he could hear the rest of the auror contingent stepping from the train. By the sound of it they were carrying rather a lot of luggage, there were a couple of heavy thumps and some muffled shouting. Around them people bustled by, many of them holiday makers, some business men, some workers at the station. However, all of them slid away from the ordered, movements of the group, some animal instinct warning them as to the danger. _Ah, got it_, he spotted the sign for border control just as the others caught up to him and he was swept along with them, keeping careful step with Tom.

Despite the nondescript robes the aurors were wearing Harry could not help but feel that the deliberate, uniform progress of the group was bound to attract attention sooner or later. Fortunately Thorbecombe seemed to agree and with a slight gesture they broke apart, almost naturally, leaving him alone to personally escort Tom and Harry.

The hallway was long and oddly lit. Numerous flaming torches failed to match with the clear, even light which hung in the passage in gossamer threads of silver. Indeed the lighting was such that Harry half believed that the roof must either have been removed or enchanted and that instead the predictably light, grey clouds of the English channel were swimming overhead, probably massing for a squall of rain. Once or twice he even half raised his eyes to check whether it looked as if rain were about to start, or if a long awaited patch of blue might be approaching, but each time he found merely the polished, pink arch of granite, stretching onwards gracefully, only a few metres above his head.

Without the aurors surrounding him he felt more relaxed. It was not as if he could or would make a run for it, but the lack of a direct presence made a mental difference. The decreased chance that one of them might decide to curse him in the back in revenge for some long dead ancestor helped too. That was of course supposing that they knew who he was. While it was fairly obvious that Thorbecombe had been informed as to his identity, there had been none of the glances of fear or recognition which he had half expected, and which Tom had received. In some way it galled him, yet another sign of the Ministry's power and the care it had taken when it came to the rewriting of history. Come to think of it he could not remember even seeing his name in any of the accounts he had ever glanced over (he had rarely more than glanced over them as the evidently partisan nature of the writers and the vague memories of Professor Binns had made him throw them aside after a few minutes). He was not even a bogeyman to scare the neo-Death Eaters any more, less than a memory, only occasionally passed on to people like Ursula Umbridge. He snorted at the thought, he'd finally achieved the anonymity he had longed for in his youth.

They rounded a corner and came to a grinding halt. A semi-infinite line of people snaked away into the distance. The corridor itself seemed far longer than could have been possible if the gate was indeed at the edges of Calais, stretching away so that the end was all but a fuzzy blur. Turning around Harry realised that the corner which had been a few steps behind them seconds before was now too far away to clearly pick out. With the turn lost against the identical blocks of granite sealing them inside a great casket of stone, barely more cheerful than a tomb. The passageway was difficult to look at too, simply staring at any one spot made his eyes water, over it all a shifting heat haze moved, distorting the queue and rippling around it.

The queue wound onwards with infuriating slowness or so it seemed, but then again it might have moved with great speed. While the normal day to day distortion of time by queues is in favour of slowing down time for those inside a queue the manner in which the corridor warped reality left Harry unable to tell how long it was taking. Occasionally he thought that he saw one of the aurors who had accompanied them, ahead in the procession of people, but none of them turned round and he could not be sure. At any rate the majority of their guards had vanished at the station itself.

He amused himself observing those waiting in the line. The man directly in front won the prize for being the most entertaining, he decided after careful deliberation. There is a type of person, who behaves quietly while at home, but feels compelled when on holiday to dress in the loudest clothes ever seen by man. One may wonder when it happens that this transformation takes place, do they discover some hidden drawer in which lies an ancient and terrible combination of fluorescent green golfing trousers, and neon pink baseball cap? Or is it that they succumb to long repressed urges and hunt down shops and secret societies where Hawaiian shirts in painfully bright colours are the norm. Either way the man in question was the stereotypical tourist, albeit with the flair for overdoing things which only wizards seemed to have. His robe was quite literally a shifting rainbow of colour. It shone and danced with each step, there was no visible stitching, or indeed threads, rather it was as if light had been pulled together, folded in upon itself and then allowed to burst outwards all at once without rhyme or reason. It was possibly the most garish piece of clothing Harry had ever seen, rivalled only by the man's hat which seemed to be decorated with starfish the colour of mother of pearl. It did not help the man's case that every few minutes he would let out a small yelp of horror and fumble through his pockets for papers or something of the sort.

Beside Harry, Tom muttered under his breath, as he stared for the most part at either the floor or the ceiling.

"Yan, tan, tethera ..."

"What are you up to?" Harry asked, keeping his voice as low as possible while still audible above the mutter of the crowd. Constant vigilance, you could never be too careful. He cast a quick muffliato, a somewhat minor charm, and noticeable under other circumstances, but safe enough in a crowd.

"Counting rhyme, I don't like bright colours," answered Tom tightly.

"Aren't you a master of mind-magic and all? Can't you just, you know, control yourself," Harry asked innocently, amused by the other man's frustration.

Tom just looked at him blankly. "I _really_ hate bright colours, why do you think I wear black?"

Harry shrugged, "I didn't give it much thought, I just presumed you knew you were evil and wanted to broadcast it. I mean, Death Eaters?"

"That was not entirely my fault," Tom protested. "I planned to call them the Knights of Walpurgis, I was simply outvoted."

"_You_ let people have a vote?" Harry asked, shocked. The line moved forward like a ponderous beast.

"I was young, it was foolish I know. I still thought that if encouraged people might be capable of intelligent thought. Anyway, as far as I remember you are hardly competent to give lectures on occlumancy, or legilimancy come to that. Or have you been practising in your spare time? Ripping through the minds of a few innocents here and there?"

Harry suppressed the urge to look away. "I _have_ had a hundred years, you know." He decided to pass over the fact that beyond hurting Tom, should he ever try to enter his mind, his tactics were restricted to bulldozing the opposition and possibly raising a shield, before trying to overpower any attackers physically. Along with a few other minor tricks. Luckily Tom let it pass, probably from a desire to stop talking to Harry. A few seconds later the one time dark lord was back to staring daggers at the man in front of him in the queue.

The one time ruler of Britain sighed, it was no use. Either he had to talk to the boy, or he would without a doubt drive himself stark raving mad through the mind numbing boredom of this wait. He was thinking of talking to Harry Potter to alleviate the boredom? He considered the idea for a second, it was of course possible that he was already mad and it just hadn't sunk in yet.

"So … how have you been since," he paused, "…when did we last see one another?" For some reason it was ludicrously difficult to make small talk with the boy.

"Erm, about sixty years ago now," Harry replied, shocked enough that he was unable to do more than answer the question. "That incident in Constantinople."

The memory drew a smile from Voldemort. "Few things are as beautiful as fire are they? That does not really answer the question though, where did you go? I spent four years trying to find you," he hesitated deciding not to reveal he had found the assassins the French government had a tendency to send after him irritating, and had half wanted a clue as to how to successfully disappear, "for one reason and another." The queue moved forward by several feet.

"Really? I'm surprised. All I did was to retire to a small, out of the way village, not give the Ministry contact details so that they couldn't tell me what to do and changed my name. Very simple all told. Though I guess they must have still been keeping tabs on me after all though," he sighed in resignation.

"You changed your name. _Is that all_? What did you even change it to?"

Harry had the good grace to blush. "It wasn't much of a name, just a bit of a joke really …"

Voldemort smiled wolfishly. "Indulge me."

"Well, you see I'd just read the Odyssey," Harry paused, scratching behind his ear, looking at a point just above Voldemort's left shoulder. "So I went for Nemo … Tom Nemo." He decided not to mention that he'd chosen it in honour of Voldemort's father just to annoy his one-time enemy. He did have to work with the man.

"'No man', how droll. Your sense of humour is just what I would expect. I _am _flattered though, I didn't think I had made that much of an impact upon you. However, in future I'd appreciate it if you got my name right." Border control was in sight, it could not be long till they finally reached it.

"I suppose I could, I'm sure the French aurors would love to know you're here, shall I start calling you it now or later?" _What the hell, I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb_, Harry murmured internally, "And don't worry, it wasn't after you anyway, it was for your father."

Voldemort's face went white with fury at the mention of the man and he turned away.

"Would the next party come forward," called the border guard, a tall, dark skinned, witch wearing a scarlet tabard with three golden lions emblazoned upon it. A small, nervous looking, man accompanied by a child stepped up past the line to begin to make his way through the agonizingly slow processing procedure. Harry sighed, this was taking forever, and patient as you became after your hundred and fortieth birthday or so this was pushing the limits of his self-control. He glanced across at Thorbecombe, the man looked as if he had just stepped out of his front door for a day at the office, the pinstriped robe was impeccably neat and he bore none of the signs of exhaustion at the wait which the others in the queue displayed. Even the wizard in the garish robes had ceased fidgeting, only occasionally pushing his head back up to look despairingly at the line. On Harry's other side, Tom stalked with an icy calm. Harry had taken off his coat and slung it over his arm, even with the cooling and air-freshening charms the atmosphere in the corridor was thick and heavy, the air hard to breath and filled with the scent of sweat and too many humans pushing one another along like cattle.

Harry chewed his lip, he had two main tactics for dealing with the stuff life threw at him: keeping busy and just removing himself from the equation. Unfortunately here he was _doing _things, or at least on the way to do things, things which brought up unwanted thoughts. It was, he had to admit to himself, likely that he would have to meet Hermione and Ron's children, or grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren, not because it would be necessary to the case, but because that was the way the world worked. It terrified him, and to a degree excited him. Would he see something of his old friends there? Would there be a chance to undo some of the damage he'd done? Would they even know his name? The last was the worst question of all.

"Next please," the guard's voice sounded far away as if through a thick, muffling fog. He only stumbled into movement when Thorbecombe nudged him forward. He realised with a shock that it was their turn.

Thorbecombe had evidently noticed his absorption in his thoughts and, almost kindly, just flashed his badge discreetly at the guard who paled at it before giving it a quick inspection and letting them through into the next stage of the crossing. The black curtain of cloth which hid the second stage from the line of travellers slid over Harry's face and shoulders like water and he found himself standing in a much lower room than the rest of the corridor, barely more than eight feet high. The room itself was perhaps twenty feet long and a dull grey, in contrast to the pink granite which had previously surrounded them. In the centre of the room, dividing it, lay a shimmering purple wall of magic perceptibly leeching the heat from the air. Upon the right there lay a row of changing rooms and to the left ran a counter made from a great slab of granite. On the counter a stack of small boxes teetered beside a set of brass scales behind which a man, with tightly curled blonde hair and frequently blinking eyes, stood.

"Your wands," he commanded officiously, pursing his lips.

Harry dropped his wand into the waiting scales. They clicked, whirred and wobbled before a thin ribbon of paper curled out from the mouth of the miniature bronze dragon which curled around the scales like a strip of fire. The man picked up the piece of paper and his eyes widened fractionally before he handed back Harry's wand and placed the paper in a shallow dish beside him. Tom, who had been poised to protest, grudgingly followed suit, realising that to do otherwise would prompt more interest. Interest which, given the policy of the French Ministry to refuse to acknowledge Britain as a state and thus to ignore the diplomatic immunity of British dignitaries meant that almost any reason other than seeking asylum with the French, or tourism and business trips from other countries through Britain to France, was a bad idea to arouse. There had been too many instances of travellers arrested, and often held for many years, by zealous border officials on both sides.

The look on the man's face was somewhere between fear, awe and incredulity as the scales informed him that he had just handled not one, but _two _phoenix wands within the space of three minutes. There was something familiar about the second one's description too … vague memories of history textbooks came to mind.

"Mr …" Thorbecombe began.

"Camble," he supplied. His voice was barely more than a whisper, a mere cobweb of sound.

Thorbecombe handed over his badge for the small man to study. "I know this must be disconcerting for you, but I must ask for your discretion in the name of your country." Camble nodded, the frown which he had borne up until this moment vanished, to be replaced by a dull, vague look of fear. "If you could hold onto these reports for a few minutes it would be _greatly_ appreciated ..."

"I can't, I _really _can't, it's against regulations, the aurors will close the gates, I'll lose my job ..."

"Calmly my dear chap," Thorbecombe interrupted gently. "I'm asking for no more than a few minutes. They won't notice that. It'll just be enough time to let us blend in. And as to you losing your job, well I would remind you that the government employs you … and I _am _the government."

Biting his tongue, eyes wide with a trace of fear the man nodded again. Thorbecombe smiled with satisfaction and placed his own wand on the scales. They whirred, a strip of paper spun out: _fir, unicorn hair, nine inches._

"Oh, and might I have a movement box to the Ministry for this?" Thorbecombe added, sliding over his badge.

"Certainly, to the DMLE?"

Thorbecombe nodded and Camble pulled out a delicate box from under the counter. It was made from silver, and the surface swam like water, interlaced runes of black enamel crawling over it, dancing in and out of one another. Pulling back the lid he placed the badge inside, waited a few seconds before opening it to reveal that it was once again empty. He seemed reassured now that he was back on familiar ground.

"Now, if you are carrying any other magical items, would you please place them in these boxes along with any other luggage and your wands. They will seal as soon as you go through the barrier and reopen once you have passed into France, thank you for your patience," he finished in the polished tones of a man who said the same thing thousands of times a day as he laid out three of the pill-box sized containers which leant dangerously beside him before turning to look at them expectantly. Thorbecombe did nothing other than push his wand into his box, but Harry pulled his overcoat off his arm and reluctantly let it be sucked inside, along with its many contents, followed by his wand. The metal glowed blue for a second before fading back to black. Tom shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah, this may prove a problem, my robe is itself a magical object and I have no other clothes with me …"

The man smiled reassuringly, "Not to worry, happens to the best of us …" he trailed off at the look Tom was sending him. "Erm, perhaps if you would step inside the cubical I could pass you clothes until we find something in your size? We have a collection for occasions such as this. Needless to say we can't transfigure anything as that would then be magical and set off the alarms."

Tom nodded grimly and stalked with bad grace towards the changing rooms.

Ten minutes and a great many rejected pieces of clothing later Tom emerged in a pair of formal trousers which were, despite his not inconsiderable height somewhat too long, and as the tightly drawn cord around his waist revealed, far too wide. His upper half was somewhat better clad, from a certain point of view, in an aged tunic like T-shirt which had last been in fashion thirty years ago, complete with a cheaply printed image of a rockband battling something which could conceivably have been a dragon, but might equally have been intended to represent a squid. The only pieces of his own clothing Tom was still wearing were the plain black socks and smooth, black leather shoes. This small relief was not enough to wipe the black look of hate from his features.

It had transpired that muggle clothing was preferable given the lack of magic used in its production, a fact which had forced Thorbecombe to follow Tom's example and grudgingly put on a pair of wide legged shorts, walking boots and a thick fisherman's jumper which to Tom's dismay Thorbecombe had snagged first.

The border clerk looked exceptionally relieved to see the back of them when at last, formalities ended, he pressed the button to let the aurors in control of the gate know they could let the party through and tapped the password into a small, hand held pad with his wand. They passed through the next chamber relatively quickly after the aurors, still in scarlet and gold had scanned them carefully before unlocking the final, heavy, iron gate before the waiting area.

Harry shivered as he felt the thick warding of the waiting room flow around them. He closed his eyes, the world swimming before him and his stomach flipping over before it dropped away with a sickening twist. What he primarily felt as he entered the room was a lack. The bond between him and his wand which he had felt constantly for time out of mind, and which had remained strong when he had placed it in the box had vanished. It was as if he had suddenly looked down and seen that his hand was missing, not something he felt so to speak, save when it came into contact with another object, but which was in its absence shockingly noticeable. He stumbled and had to pause for a moment to steady his breathing. Tom following him in had, if anything, a worse reaction, sinking to the floor. Of the three of them Thorbecombe seemed least affected, although his skin had taken on a greenish tinge.

Looking around he realised that many of the others had the same pained expression of discomfort and loss, only the children seemed unconcerned. The room itself was perhaps the least impressive he had seen so far in the station-cum-gate, but while not large it gave plenty of room for the fifty or so people who waited their turn to pass through the French border and out of this no-man's land. The walls were painted a crisp white and around the edges a half-dozen of the French gendarmes prowled. They wore robes of a rich azure, with the fleur-de-lis upon the chest, and each carried identical ivory wands. At their belts they also carried more traditional examples of the wand crafter's art which many of them frequently brushed their fingers against.

"Ugh," Tom muttered as he picked himself up from the floor, dusting himself off. "Now that's something I haven't felt before."

They each took a numbered ticket and made their way over to a set of seats recently vacated by a family and settled down for the final stage of the wait. At the French gate a grim faced official tapped an ivory wand against the iron, a ripple ran over the metal and it dissolved softly into air for just long enough for a petite woman wearing a crimson shawl to step through. Beyond, Harry caught a glimpse of a room where a gendarme stood guard at a desk. As the woman entered the man moved his arm as if to press or pull something and the purple gleam faded from view before the iron door shivered into existence once more.

"I'll be back soon," Harry promised to Thorbecombe as he got up and made his way to the loos. He sighed in relief as he splashed the cold water over his face, at least superficially washing away the sense of grime which accumulated while waiting. Shaking his head like a wet dog he wiped the excess water off onto his trousers and walked back into the main waiting hall. As he walked back he passed a group of fellow travellers, the father was shuffling through a set of papers, the mother dangling a baby on her knee and the daughter, a girl of about seven or eight was reading out loud to her baby brother.

"Full fathom five thy father lies ..."

He passed on quickly, the faint smile which had for a moment crossed his lips gone. There were some things which always gave him the shivers. There was something else about them that bothered him though, still he couldn't put his finger on it so no point in worrying.

"Hullo," he greeted Thorbecombe as he sat back down. Across the aisle Tom was pacing up and down, drawing suspicious glares from the guards, "What number are we on now then?"

"They've reached 158. It shouldn't be too long now. You ought to get your papers ready."

"Papers?" Harry's stomach lurched again as the bottom dropped away from it for the second time in half an hour.

"You know, the papers. I expect the Ministry ran them through, so just follow my lead, lad." Thorbecombe spoke in an undertone, evidently aware of the possibility of eavesdroppers. "Now, now, what's this?" His attention was pulled away from Harry as a harried looking official passed a note through a grille in the door to one of the gendarmes. The gendarme had drawn one of his companions over and was gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

"No, listen, I don't have papers, _we_ don't have papers," Harry whispered in furious panic, grabbing Thorbecombe's arm to bring him back to the conversation.

"But … but you must have been given some … at the Ministry, you were to learn them on the train …" Thorbecombe protested weakly, his face turning an ashen white.

Harry shook his head dully.

"Shit."

"Yeah ..." Harry turned towards Tom as he passed by. "Tom, need a word."

Tom raised an eyebrow but carefully seated himself beside them.

"We have a problem."

"Yes?"

"Apparently we don't have any papers."

"Ah," Tom appeared to consider the problem for a second before turning to Thorbecombe, "if I discover that you were more than an unwitting tool of your disaster of a Ministry's all too transparent plot then I make you this promise: I_ shall_ hunt you down, should you get out of this alive; I _will_ rip the flesh from your bones and I _shall _destroy any hope you ever harboured in a God, because there will be no mercy, either in the blessing that death shall become to you or in the eternity beyond should you achieve it. Now do we have a plan?"

Harry and Thorbecombe instinctively looked at one another before shaking their heads. "Nada," Harry supplied, he could feel the tension building, crackling like the air before a summer storm. In the background a guard called the next person forward. Around them a few of the gendarmes began to filter through the hall, stopping occasionally to ask people something in quiet, indistinct, tones.

"We could just go back and wait for papers," Thorbecombe suggested tentatively.

"Why, of course, and I'm sure Border Control would just _love_ to let two people without any papers and … well whoever your papers say you are back into the country," Tom scoffed, "Perhaps the French don't keep records. Maybe they won't notice our second attempt to enter the country within a few days. Come to that how do you intend to get back through _that_?" He gestured at the heavy, sealed, gate to the British side of the complex.

"We could imperius the guard at the gate to let us through …" Harry mused half-heartedly.

"Well done, another brilliant scheme. Do you have a wand hidden about your person because I don't. Not that I'm even sure they'd work in here," Tom pointed out with chilly calm.

"Sorry, sorry, just trying to think of something. I don't see _you_ coming up with anything," Harry hissed.

"We could …"

"Excusez-moi, Monsier?"

Harry looked up at the thin gendarme, "Yes? Can I help you?" Lying to Snape had to come in handy someday he supposed as he quashed his body's instinctively guilty expression.

"Might I see your wand license?" The man asked, his accent hanging heavily on every word, a look of disgust crossing his face at Harry's lack of an attempt to speak French.

Harry blinked slowly, "Actually, I don't have one," he pressed on with the lie, "I'm a squi ... unawakened you see." _Control your heart beat, look him in the eye, blink naturally_. The gendarme studied his face for a few seconds while Tom and Thorbecombe put up a front of talking heatedly to one another behind Harry.

"Very well monsieur. Might I ask for your ticket number?"

"Of course, I'm 174. Anything else?"

"Non. Not for ze moment. By ze way, I should get ready, if I were you. We are about to speed up the process. Try and get rid of some of ze back- how do you say it? Leg? Non, log, backlog, zat is it."

"Ah, merci," Harry's attempt at French possibly made the man wince more than he had at the sound of English. He sighed in relief as the gendarme moved on selecting his next victim. _Why speed up the process though? Unless they're trying to panic us. Why panic us? They must have found a record of the wands, but since they're just trying to scare in general they don't know who we are exactly._

"Well, that's bought us a little more time at least," he interjected into the conversation.

Thorbecombe surveyed him sourly, "Until they realise that there aren't unawakened here, or that you aren't one of them. Why the hell don't you have a license?"

Harry shrugged, "Didn't know you needed one nowadays."

Thorbecombe shuddered, rubbing his temples. If he survived this mission he prayed to all the gods that ever were that he'd get early retirement. He definitely deserved it.

"Any more ideas in the meantime?"

"Beyond just trying to take on six gendarmes without a weapon? No, not really," came Tom's languid reply.

"We could just try and talk our way through."

The other two just looked at him with blank horror at the stupidity of the idea. Not a Gryffindor bone in their bodies he decided.

* * *

Voldemort rolled his eyes, they were getting nowhere, less than nowhere even. The two of them were hopeless. How on earth was it that with supposedly intelligent humans behaving like this anyone had ever managed to thwart him? Still, needs must when the Devil drives.

"Fine, if you want a job done, do it yourself," he muttered before addressing the others, "when the time comes, use the distraction. Take care of my body."

Pain. Pain flooded every nerve of his insubstantial form as Voldemort flung himself into the ether using an ancient, dangerous and most importantly wandless magical art he had perfected long ago. Say what you liked, thirteen years as a wraith really improved your skills when it came to possession. His, hopefully temporarily, vacated body lurched into Harry, collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. He watched dispassionately for a moment before beginning to glide his way towards the iron doorway. That was one of the things he found in his wraith form, emotions were muted, dull empty things, only the black well of hatred remained. He couldn't spend too long like this though, already the pain was beginning to numb his thoughts and he could feel the links to his body starting to fray.

The world was a mottled canvas of greys, blacks and whites streaming around him, but even through the iron he could see the pulsing line of scarlet magic where the wards blocked the passage from England to Europe. The iron barrier dissolved as a small girl and her family hurried through the gate and he floated alongside, a wisp of invisible malice. The barrier pulsed threateningly as the door resolved itself into solid reality once more.

* * *

Harry grasped Tom's slumping form, forcing him up into a sitting position, "Help me with him," he grunted to Thorbecombe.

"What's he up to do you reckon?" Thorbecombe asked nervously, the emotion out of place on his thick businessman's face.

"I don't have a clue, but it isn't good for him. He's losing heat fast, can you feel it?"

Thorbecombe nodded, listening intently, "He's hardly breathing."

"Let's sit him up, perhaps that'll help. Get ready to pick him up though. Something is going to happen, I can feel it, and my bet is we need to get through the gate when it does."

* * *

Voldemort sank almost tenderly into the guard's body as the man was just reaching to close the gate after the family. The body stiffened as the two spirits warred for control. The fight did not last long, it might have been the man's home turf so to speak but against the greatest legilimens in the last five hundred years even a moderately trained mind stood less than no chance.

Voldemort smiled triumphantly and the man's lips twisted upwards in a mockery of a grin. Still, no time for that, now that he was in another's carcass the links to his own body would be failing still faster. He concentrated, the next operation would be a little bit more difficult.

He had always prided himself on his ability when it came to the manipulation, control and possession of victims. He was inclined to believe that he was, in all probability, the only wizard who could have accomplished a possession let alone so thoroughly or with such devastating speed. In this belief he was quite wrong, while it was true that only one witch could rival his finesse, there were another three wizards and witches who could (albeit more crudely) have achieved the possession. One was in psychiatric care since he had accidentally switched bodies with a rabbit named Tootles and become stuck. Another two were, and had long been, locked in a _very_ long running battle to take over one another's bodies. The last, and the only one whose natural talent exceeded his own was a young woman of twenty-three who had sworn an unbreakable vow never to use her talent and lived quietly in Cairo.

Nevertheless, it was true that what he did next no other could have managed. Despite his hatred for muggles Voldemort had long known that their knowledge in some matters exceeded that of wizards, and the maxim of "know thine enemy" had served him well. Over the last century he had paid careful attention to muggle articles on the workings of the human brain. After a quick, but thorough ravaging of the guard's memory as far as the security of the gate went he applied what was in magical terms the equivalent of an icepick driven into the brain with surgical precision. The blow elicited a small, involuntary whimper from the man. It was an advantage of possession that the practitioner did not suffer the physical side effects of damage to the body. Rather they played a somewhat parasitic role, while, when necessary, pulling the strings.

He jabbed the lever which raised and lowered the gate with 'his' wand, sending a pulse of magic into it. It came out weak, watered down by the foreign body and the resistance which the guard was still putting up. He tried again.

"Jean, que faites-vous?" A man's voice asked, from his left, he glanced up noticing the approaching figure of a gendarme.

"Nothing," he blurted out, realising too late that he had spoken in English.

The man's eyes narrowed, "Déposez votre baguette. Drop your wand."

Hesitation and obedience to the law, the eternal weakness of policemen. Voldemort smiled grimly, sending one last blast of power into the mechanism, before leaping backwards. The gate jammed open, the operating system fried, a faint purple haze only occasionally wavering in an out of existence every few seconds.

The gendarme attacked, his first spell whizzing past Voldemort's outstretched arm.

Voldemort's possessed body lurched wildly as he sidestepped, barely avoiding a burst of orange light. He returned fire, a rattle of spells pouring from his wand like hail. Every single one of them was lethal. Every single one of them missed. His right hand, wand grasped tightly within the fist, twisted shooting the spells into the walls, floor and ceiling, peppering the guard with rubble, but leaving him unharmed.

He felt sweat prickling his borrowed brow, he must have made a slight mistake he realised, though weak, the body's true owner was still resisting him. Slouching awkwardly under a cutting curse he began to edge backwards, with things as they were he stood little chance against a trained professional. Channelled through this body, his control of magic was a mere shadow of its usual self. With his mind already split between numerous tasks: controlling the body; maintaining the connection to his own body; suppressing his victim's mind and fighting the gendarme there was little chance that the situation would improve.

A leg spasmed, knocking him off balance and leaving him open to the bone-piercer which ripped through the flesh and muscle of his calf. He felt his control falter, weakened by the sudden pain. Casting a wide shield he used the force from the spell to propel himself backwards towards the door. The ivory wand in his hand swung round, catching the cold iron of the gate.

* * *

Tom's body jerked under Harry's grip in sympathy with some unseen event.

"Come on Riddle, hurry up!" Harry breathed, he could feel the tension burning in his blood, the pressure of being helpless was not a sensation to which he was accustomed. His head snapped up as the iron door to the room dissolved and the sound of battle flooded the chamber. The guards began to race towards the opening, only for one of their own to stagger through, the brilliant blue of his robe stained black with blood. He stumbled and pointed through the doorway. They reacted with brutal, crushing, destructive aggression. As the man collapsed, red liquid pooling around him, the gendarmes let loose a steady stream of burning, cutting, slicing and blasting curses through the doorway. The volley of spells lasted only a few seconds but the tell-tale signs of the devastation drifted through the doorway in the form of smoke and dust.

A voice floated through the doorway, magically amplified so that it boomed around the chamber of waiting, terror-stricken travellers, forcing them to cover their ears as they crouched and huddled upon the ground.

"Arrête! Arrête! Je ne suis pas votre ennemi. Cet homme n'est pas Jean, il a attaqué les défenses."

"Identifiez-vous. Ou se préparer à mourir," the leader of the gendarmes replied firmly, narrowing his eyes to try and peer through the haze of dust.

The man who had staggered through the gateway, now somewhat healed by another of the blue robed warriors, began to crawl along the floor towards the back of the room, past Harry and Thorbecombe, and as he passed he winked broadly. A smile twisted his face.

"Je suis …" the man from the room beyond began only for another voice to cut him off.

"Don't worry, he is telling the truth. I assure you," the voice was unmistakeable. Even coming from the wrong body. The cultured, aristocratic tones of Tom Marvolo Riddle cut through the room. As Harry gestured to Thorbecombe to get ready to move he wondered absently how it was that a boy brought up in a poor London orphanage had come to sound like that.

"Mon Dieu, c'est le Diable,"whispered one gendarme in horror.

"Not quite," Tom began modestly, leaning heavily on one of the thick wooden benches, "but not far off," and with a flourish he swept the ivory wand in a wide arc letting out a wave of pulsing fire at the men who moments before had leapt to his defence, forcing them to the floor.

* * *

Harry began to shuffle along the flagstones, pulling the limp body by its arms as Thorbecombe pushed. Around them spells cracked and roared as they smashed into the paintwork. Tom knocked aside attacks with wide duelling shields, letting them ricochet away back towards his attackers. His defence was surprisingly sloppy, Harry realised, based more on arcane knowledge than finesse or power. Long forgotten shields absorbed finely tuned blasts which had never encountered their weight before. Yet it was at a price. Tom was obviously flagging, his ripostes had become little more than flickers of action amid the maelstrom in which he stood, beleaguered.

Harry saw his chance, the gendarmes led by the guard from the other side of the gate were caught up in the advance upon their foe and had left the gate unmanned. The other travellers had backed into the corners of the room, trapped like sheep amid wolves. Heaving Tom's body onto his shoulder he half crouched, half ran through the gate, the limp legs smacking painfully into his hips. Thorbecombe followed, useless, but doggedly pursuing the man he had been assigned to guard.

* * *

Lord Voldemort breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw the boy and the Ministry stooge slink through the door. He was nearing the last of his strength. Still, there was enough left for one last burst. He drove another drill of power randomly into his host's mind, by now he'd lost count of how many he had been forced to use on the man, hopefully this one would at least send him into a psychotic rage. That would buy them time, and they _needed_ time, especially if he was to repossess his body before it failed entirely, which with how little attention he had spared it during the fight could not be long. Snapping up yet another shield he slumped out of the way of the green light of a killing curse. They were getting serious then, time to leave.

"Know this," he shouted over the din, "you have but faced the outriders of the storm that is my wrath. Remember Lord Voldemort. _IGNIS IRA_!" With that he left the body of the guard and fled, dodging through the raging, leaping flames conjured by the spell, a lesser cousin to the terrible fiendfyre, but one which a horcrux or a soul might survive.

* * *

Even down the corridor Harry felt the wash of heat blister the back of his neck. He dropped Tom's body like a sack of potatoes, taking a half step back down the passage. He hesitated, the desire to help the men and women at the gate pulled him towards it, but the shouts amid the roar of flames at least meant people had survived and that there could only be a little time left for them to escape. He glanced around, it could not be long till more guards arrived.

Kneeling down beside Tom he felt for a pulse, it was becoming fainter and fainter, fading away. For a second Tom's back arched, his eyes opened wide and he gasped in air. Then he collapsed backwards, the pulse dying entirely.

Thorbecombe stared at the still corpse in shock, rocking back on his haunches, "Oh. Now what?"

"Oh no you don't you bastard," Harry snarled putting his hands to Tom's chest and beginning to pump. "One, two, three. Come on man, help me!"

Thorbecombe looked at him hopelessly, without magic he was obviously helpless and they had no time for magic. "How?"

"Breathe into his mouth. Fast!"

Harry kept pumping as Thorbecombe, following his instructions lowered his mouth to Tom's, blowing heavily. Harry kept pumping with one hand as he flicked the fingers of his right, letting some of what little magic he could control wandlessly flow into a crackling bolt of electricity. He plunged his hand down; Tom's body shook, jolting as the electricity passed through him. His heart did not restart. Down the corridor there came the sound of running feet, for the moment far off. The crackle of flames from the chamber was dying down, the shouts of the gendarmes growing calmer. Harry flicked another bolt into Tom's chest. For a moment he shuddered, and then Harry felt the weak flutter of a heart beginning to beat. Thorbecombe paused, feeling it.

"No! Don't … stop …" commanded Harry, "Must … keep … going." They laboured furiously over the body, and Tom's heart gained strength as his soul once more safely housed inside the body sped up the process. Mere instants after Tom had cranked his eyes open for the second time (the first had met with the somewhat horrifying experience of Thorbecombe still giving him inexpert mouth to mouth resuscitation) he found Harry's fists gripping the collar of his T-shirt.

"I swear by Merlin, if you used fiendfyre in there, if a single one of them is dead … I'll hand myself over to the French and let them do their worst. You utter bastard," Harry growled, eyes burning inches from Tom's own.

Tom blinked slowly, "I didn't use fiendfyre. I suspected the gendarmes would survive anyway, and by the sound of it they contained it."

Harry sagged in relief at the news, almost anything else could be beaten without the loss of life which invariably resulted from the black fire. Still his hands did not slacken their grip, "Listen Riddle, you _might _have avoided killing anyone this time, but I'm watching you. You step over the line, just once, and I _will_ find a way to get around the oath. Even if I have to break open the seals on the ninth gate to do it."

"I saved our lives back there ..."

"Look, I only have the faintest idea of the history between you two, and frankly I don't much care. We need to hide, they're coming." Thorbecombe's interruption brought the two of them back to the present.

Harry hesitated for a second, then ripping open the container Camble had handed him for his possessions he pulled out his coat. Reaching into the pocket he drew out a long stretch of silvery material and flung it over them.

"Pull in your legs!"

They hunched themselves under the cloak with hardly a moment to spare. Lying there curled up like mice as the gendarmes thundered down the passage and past the desk which still smouldered from the barrage of spells which had hit it.

* * *

_14 Hours Later in the Office of the French President for Magic. The conversation has been translated._

"And there is no way to track this back to the British?" The president, Albert Chenault asked for the third time.

"None that we can make stick. They are denying all involvement. Many know it was them of course, but we have no evidence. They refuse to even admit their one-time leader was at the scene …"

"We know someone carrying his wand entered the area! The man even declared the attack to be in his name!" Albert thumped his fist on the oaken desk.

"_We_ know, sir, but the information was destroyed in the battle, and what's worse as far as all the witnesses' reports go they agree it was one of our own men who attacked the others. Several ambassadors have already effectively told me that they believe that this was a put up job by us ..." the aide flinched as a thunderous look crossed the President's face.

"The man's in a spell damage ward!"

"I know, but ..."

"No, this time they've gone too far. Activate operation Alah al-din."

"Sir, we don't know what …"

"Do it."

The aide sighed and walked out of the doors, there was little point in arguing sometimes. The doors swung shut behind him, the white and gold wood sliding silently to a stop. Albert sat down, running his fingers through his rapidly greying hair; when he had first been elected it was a solid black. He picked up the report and looked at it again. He prayed he was doing the right thing.

**Translations:**

1. Excuse me, sir?

2. John, what are you doing?

3. Drop your wand.

4. Stop! Stop! I am not your enemy. That man is _not _Jean, he attacked the defences.

5. Identify yourself. Or prepare to die.

6. I am …

7. My God, it is the Devil.


	5. The King in Black

**Discl********aimer: **I don't own this.

**A/N: **As someone who is reading through this and improving it pointed out Thorbecombe is a somewhat unwieldy name. Initially in this chapter I simply gave his first name and carried on calling him Thorbecombe. Now though this is the point at which he starts being referred to as Richard.

**The King in Black**

_It is always best to keep moving. If you keep moving things can change. If you stay where you started until forced to move you will not be a player, but merely the pawn of another._

Three figures slunk out of a small, blank walled, grimy alley. The tall, dark haired man in the lead looked carefully from side to side and then set off to the right, towards where the buzz of the town began to fade away into nothing. They were at the very edge of Calais, amid the dingiest of the forsaken streets. Once this area had been thriving, but with the great population decline of the late twenty-first century it had been left as little more than an outer ring of dull brick work and cement around the still beating heart of the town.

"What now?" the shortest of the three asked. In his thick jersey he seemed out of place in the red, evening sunlight which burst down between the crumbling houses, scattering the rubble strewn lane with rubies.

The leader considered the question for a moment. "Well, I think we need to find some way out of here first. He's still too weak to apparate, so we'll need another way …"

"Portkey?" the shorter man suggested, his black beard bobbing.

"Could they track it?"

"Probably," came the gloomy reply.

"No then. We'll go the muggle way. I'll drive." He looked around. "Come on, we'll nick a car."

The other two followed, one leaning heavily against the wall, his breathing ragged as he stumbled along behind the others.

Harry looked around, there were only a few people walking down the street they had come to. They had been forced to walk away from the town, unable to risk triggering the border wards and so now they were in one of the outlying villages as dusk settled gently over them. He felt horrendously conspicuous, lounging against the dusty, whitewashed, wall. The thick, worn, leather of his coat rubbed against the rough surface. He wiggled his wand so that the tip was just poking out of his sleeve and pointed the dark wood at a man who had just locked his car.

"_Confundo_. _Accio_ keys," he whispered softly. Catching the bunch of metal as it soared through the air he maintained his nonchalant slouch against the wall. The man blinked dazedly, looking blearily at his hand where the keys had been moments before. Then he began to wander away up the street in a wobbly line, prompting a woman coming the other way to give him a wide berth as she hurried by, hissing about drunkards under her breath.

Harry felt a pang of guilt at the crime, but there was no time for that now. He waited a few moments for the last of the evening walkers to leave the road before sauntering over to the car and pushing the series of small, black, steel, balls into the lock. There was a click as they slid into place and extended their prongs into the system, before sending out the correct password for the car. Then the door opened and he slid into the driver's seat. It was an old car, slimmed down to the bare essentials in the drive for a more eco-friendly lifestyle. The ride did not promise to be comfortable.

The back door opened and Thorbecombe pushed Tom into a seat, strapping him in before locking his own seatbelt in place. Harry carefully adjusted the mirrors, running through how to drive in his mind. He was pretty sure he remembered most of it, though there was yet another of those little worries pressing for attention in his mind. He shook his head and turned on the engine. It purred into life and releasing the handbrake he set off at a slow glide down the street, it had been a long time since he had last driven. Still, there was nothing to it, came back as easily as riding a bike. A computer whirred into life and began speaking in French, warning him about something or other. He thumped it hard and the tiny screen on the dashboard flickered and died. Digging about in the glove compartment with one hand while he steered with the other he pulled out an aged road map and flung it into the back.

"You know I'm impressed, not many wizards have a clue about cars," he observed to Thorbecombe who was settled as comfortably as possible in the back.

"Yes well, you know, Ministry trai … OH FOR MERLIN'S SAKE WATCH OUT!"

_Ah, yes, that was it. _He knew something had been wrong. He swerved wildly to avoid a madly honking car coming the other way. _You drive on the other side of the road when on the continent. Got to remember that._

From the back a shaky voice spoke, "That isn't going to happen much is it?"

"No, no, absolutely not, Thorbecombe." _Or at least I hope not._

"Call me Richard by the way," the other man said, the panic receding from his voice.

"Righto. Can you read the map for me? I think we've got to head south-east."

The drive was smooth enough. In the back Tom slept, pressed up against the window while Richard gave occasional directions. The sky grew darker and darker, red fading to blue and then black. The stars lay hidden, cloaked by a veil of cloud. As they drove Harry flicked on the lights, yellow beams slicing into the night. Once in a while they shot past another car, but they were few and far between.

At last Harry pulled in to a service station and turned off the engine. They had been looping back and forward for hours, trying to make sure that any pursuit would have lost them. It had left them just to the north of Rheims.

"We should be safe enough here, for the night anyhow. We'll wait till morning and power up the car before carrying on tomorrow. I'm too tired to keep watch and he's still out of it," Harry commented, jerking his thumb at the unconscious form of Tom. "I doubt you're much better off. I say we risk it and all get a few hours sleep."

Richard looked as if he might protest, but a huge, involuntary yawn cut him off. He nodded reluctantly and unbuckling his seat belt he climbed over into the boot where he lay down to rest.

Harry rolled the chair back and stretched out. He half wondered about checking the radio to see if the French Ministry had fed any warnings of terrorists to the muggles. It was hardly worth it though, there either would be or there wouldn't and there was no point in waking the others.

There was not a great deal of magic he dared to try around the car for fear of frying the electrics, but he let a silent notice-me-not-charm wrap around them now that they had stopped and it could not interfere too much with the car. He'd have to take it off in the morning of course, it would not be a good idea to make other road users unaware of his existence, but in the meantime its presence made him feel a touch safer.

He slept.

* * *

_England, July 2002._

A mist lapped lightly at his feet as he stepped onto the path near Cricklehollow Cottage. He was late, and worse alone. After the argument with Hermione and Ginny over the new tactics his red-headed girlfriend had declared that they needed time to cool off, away from one another. The feeling of peace and serenity which always washed over him when he came to Cricklehollow calmed him. Perhaps they were right, perhaps he _was _pushing for victory no matter the cost.

The instant he saw the cottage the spell broke. Something was wrong. True enough no Dark Mark hung above the house, but that meant little these days. The door swung open, waving to and fro on its hinges, revealing only blackness beyond, deeper than any night. He drew his wand and padded forward, careful not to awaken any hidden wards which might be lying in wait for him. He had set too many traps to fall into one so easily.

He nudged the door open with the toe of his boot and edged inside. The darkness was complete, but it could not hide the slick, wet pool against the wall of the hallway as moonlight blossomed through the open doorway. Harry licked his lips, praying that the worst had _not_ happened. _Please, whoever is listening let them have escaped. _He took a long, deep, breath and moved on into the house, feeling his way for a few more steps, keeping his body low.

He paused, from above there had come a soft, slow, thump. He gripped his wand tightly, sweat tingling on his slick palm.

"_Nox Videre_," he breathed, tapping his wand softly against his glasses. There was little point in concealing his presence now when an enemy might wait in any shadow. He was close enough that they could at least no longer use the house as a fortress. Fortunately the night vision charm was less obtrusive than _lumos_, and less well known. He waited a few seconds for any attack, either from the wards or from hidden assailants. Nothing happened. He cursed his stupidity for storming out of the meeting without the invisibility cloak as he saw what could only be a thick trail of blood running down the wall from the ceiling above. Even through the muted colours of the charm there was no question as to what it was.

He could feel his shirt sticking to his skin, cold and clammy despite the heat of the July night. His blood froze in his veins, if it was so warm why had there been a mist?

Abandoning all traces of stealth he pounded up the narrow flight of steps to the first floor. Pausing for barely a second he began to wrench doors open. Bathroom: nothing. Spare room: nothing. Airing cupboard: nothing. With fierce desperation he tore open the door to the master bedroom.

Hannah Longbottom sat crouched on the floor, slowly rocking back and forward, a floral dress pooling around her. Her head thumped slowly against the door of the wardrobe. Her hands were locked in front of her face. A foot away from her lay her wand, shattered on the carpet, coated with rot and mildew, aged many years.

Not far away the eviscerated corpse of a black robed man was impaled upon the wall next to the window to the garden. A rose had climbed the wall and smashed through the glass before turning and spearing him through. The blood was his, it had flowed down over the floorboards and down to the floor below. That blood was still dripping from the lifeless corpse was witness to the fact that Harry could only have been minutes too late.

"Hannah?" he croaked out, pleading. No answer. "Hannah,_ please_ ..." his voice broke. Still nothing. "Do you know where Neville is?" Nothing.

He knelt down beside her and slowly put his hands out, stopping her continual rocking. For a second he thought she might turn and look at him, speak, anything, but there was nothing. Not even the smallest sound.

Gently he turned her head towards him. Her long, heavy, honey gold hair fell over her face veiling it from sight. With trembling fingers he brushed it aside. Her lips were open, tinged with blue, frostbitten and behind them her teeth were warped and grey. It was the eyes that were worst of all. He flinched backwards from them. While once they had been warm, chocolate brown orbs, now they were as cold and lifeless as those of a corpse. There was no recognition there, no reaction to his presence or even his existence.

The part of her which babbled and thrived on kindness; the part which had laughed when Neville danced her around the table in a giddy whirling jig when she accepted his proposal; the part which smiled as if the sun had risen, as she did for no one else, when Neville walked into the room was gone. Hannah's soul had been ripped from existence as if it had never been. Harry snarled, dementors.

Their taint was no longer there, but traces of their passage were clear in the withering of life, and Hannah's … absence.

Harry wept, wet, warm tears falling over his cheeks as he cradled the hollow shell that had once been his friend. Eventually he stood, tears streaking his cheek. If Neville was not here with Hannah there was virtually no chance that he still lived, and if he did … Harry levelled his wand at her and spoke words of mercy, her body slumped to the floor, passing without pain into the eternal sleep.

His heart was cold, heavy and hard as flint as he walked down the stairs, not bothering to hurry. His wand glowed with a dull, red light at its tip illuminating the darkness like a malevolent eye as he traversed the house in long strides.

Methodically he checked each and every room, a cool detachment removing all thought. At last he came to the drawing room and looked out across the lawn from the French windows. Neville's last stand had been where he expected, in the garden. The normally pristine lawn was pockmarked with smouldering embers and holes where plants had ruptured the earth in defence of their friend only to be hacked down with blasting curses.

The once beautiful garden now resembled a graveyard of flesh, blood and bone more than anything else. In places carnivorous vines seethed over in the ground crawling from the broken greenhouses across the lawn. One long strip of grass had been torn away marring what was left of the lawn. Harry followed the trail with his eyes, already aware of what he would see. Neville's torn and tattered cadaver hung swinging and turning in the gentle breeze, the noose tight around his neck. A macabre and ghastly fruit. On his shoulder a crow perched.

Harry left the house soundlessly. The red glow burst from his wand, raging animals of fire leaping over the house and garden, devouring all in its path. He waited until the last beam collapsed into ashes before forcing the spell to cease. Then, turning away he walked a short way down the path before disapparating. Whatever the cost there would be peace.

_Harry awoke, the tears still running down his cheeks. All was quiet, and with the smell of lemon grass and thyme around him he sank back to sleep._

* * *

When he next awoke morning had broken, though what time it was he could not tell. Slate grey rain clouds scudded after one another across the sky. Billows of thin drizzle lashed the windscreen, pattering lightly against the pane of glass. He sat up stiffly, wincing as the crick in his neck clicked before he swallowed thickly. The heavy taste of a night's sleep with uncleaned teeth hung in his mouth like the remains of a small, diseased, animal. Quietly he slipped out of the car and walked over to the service station where with a combination of a phrase book which he subsequently bought he obtained a small tube of tooth paste along with a brush. Handing over the money which the car's owner had left carelessly in the glove compartment he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and thanked the shop assistant.

The taste of the toothpaste was as disagreeable as a new brand always is, but it was still better than that of a night's sleep. He had always done it by hand after Hermione had informed him (she had never mentioned things, she only ever informed or told people) that the charm many wizards used not only cleaned the teeth, but if imprecisely applied could strip them of the enamel as well. Given Harry's somewhat erratic ability when it came to charms he chose not to risk it. He did not relish the idea of specialised skelegrow regrowing parts of his mouth. Rolling his shoulders he straightened up, swirling the last of the foamy toothpaste down the sink. He glanced into the mirror and grimaced, he needed a shower; his hair, still as wild as ever had a slight shimmer of grease. He sighed, it would have to wait until they next stopped.

When he arrived back at the car Richard was pacing up and down, his face mottled puce and sickly cream, half afraid, half furious. In the back seat Tom still slept.

"I don't know, I haven't a clue where he got off to!" Richard was virtually shouting, although to whom it was impossible to tell as there was no one in sight. He paused for a moment in his pacing. "No, Philips hasn't reported in, nor Moore. I think we'll have to presume they're gone. We will proceed as planned. The rendezvous will be at Stuttgart as planned. Now I'm off to find that bloody whelp ..." he turned around and seeing Harry jumped, a look of embarrassment and guilt flickering over his face. His thumb swiped over the base of his wand with a click.

"Hello, I think you were about to go looking for me?" Harry greeted him mildly.

"Hm, ah, yes … sorry about that. Didn't mean anything by it," he spoke gruffly, avoiding Harry's gaze.

"Don't worry, I'm sure it was nerve wracking. Who were you talking to?"

"Just … just one of the boys on the team."

"Are they okay?"

"Mmm, by and large they managed to make themselves scare and avoid suspicion as far as I can tell."

"May I ask how you were talking?" Harry asked intrigued.

Richard hesitated before nodding. "Of course," he smiled, "not much of a secret. Just two way mirrors, we have them installed in our wands. Standard auror equipment. They're only able to be activated by the wand's owner though," he finished, giving Harry a measured look.

"Surely that would mean you could only keep in touch with one of your team?"

"It would, but they're not tied to one another. There's some sort of nexus or something. I never understood what the mage-tecs do. Clever bit of spellcraft though ..." he trailed off admiringly, a hint that he might have said too much in his tone as he changed topic. "So what's the plan?"

Harry started a little at the assumption that he was in charge. It was true that he had taken the lead the day before, but even so it came as a shock, he hadn't dared to take charge in a long time. Still, it couldn't hurt, at least it couldn't hurt anyone he cared about.

"I was thinking, and really we could all do with a bite to eat. So I say we drive down into Rheims, have breakfast and then set off. If you plan out our route that would help. My guess is that we'll be most of the way there by this evening. It can't be more than four or five hours drive, even if we stick to the smaller roads, as we probably should. If we carry on the muggle way they aren't likely to ask questions even when we get to the border."

"They won't bother us?"

"I wouldn't think so. The muggles have something, a very old treaty called the Schengen Agreement. Oh don't worry about it," he sighed noticing Richard's look of incomprehension. "Just trust me. Anyway the German wards are patchy enough that we'll probably slip through. At least if they haven't changed them since last time."

The sun was beginning to break through the clouds as they drove down into Rheims, golden rays glittering on the turquoise surface of the river which ran, straight and true through the centre of the city, splitting it apart like a ripe orange. Harry steered the car carefully across the wide stone bridge which spanned the river, glancing down at the enticing waters. Along the banks cafés lined the way, tables and chairs spilling outwards onto the streets. From one or two the faint sound of music could just be heard, brushing the air. Spinning the wheel Harry coaxed the car into a parking space, cobbles grinding under the tyres.

They stepped out, car doors banging to behind them as they stretched. Tom was still unnaturally pale save for the dark circles showing under his eyes and the beginnings of unkempt stubble which dusted his cheeks. His previously neat hair was rumpled and fluffed out. He had changed back into his robe, but for once he looked neither deadly nor elegant. Had Harry not known him he would have supposed that he had been out on the lash the night before. Richard had elected to remain in the shorts he had been given at the crossing point, although he had swapped the thick jersey for Tom's cast off T-shirt, tight though it was over his cask of a chest.

They walked together, three abreast, up the shady street. Harry walked in the middle, suppressing a smile at the thought that they could have been three of the most outlandish cowboys ever to grace a western. If westerns were set in France. Tall limes overshadowed the way, covered in the explosion of spring growth. It was oddly peaceful, Harry mused, for a city in a land where one of your companions was public enemy number one. The sun was winning the battle against the rain clouds which were beginning to break apart and beating a hasty retreat away over the terracotta roofs and chimneys of the city.

As they came in sight of the great, yellow-grey bulk of the cathedral, its towers rising high over the surrounding buildings Harry spied a likely café. Set away from the main road the white walls gleamed even under the shade of its neighbours. The awning stood out, almost touching the opposite wall, the peach coloured cloth turning the cobbles below a faint, soft, orange.

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted out of the boulangerie next door as a waiter from the café collected the morning's bread. Around them they could hear the everyday noises of a city awakening. Away in the distance the sound of a woman singing soared into the sky.

Harry led the way inside, taking a seat at one of the small, wrought iron tables. Tom sank down beside him and lowered his head gently into his hands.

The waiter approached them and asked something in rapid French. To Harry's surprise Richard answered fluently before turning to the others.

"He's asking what we all want," Richard explained catching Harry's eye.

"Er, coffee please. Black as it can be. And a pan au raisin," he added catching sight of the food display. "Get a baguette too would you?"

"Water," Tom murmured in a monotone, just loud enough to be heard.

"Right." Richard turned back to the waiter and gave their order. The man hurried off to collect the pieces together.

"I didn't know you spoke French, Thorb .. Richard. Good thing though, I was going to have to struggle through with a phrasebook otherwise."

"There _was_ a reason I was sent with you," huffed Richard, "I'm quite good at languages in fact."

Harry almost apologised, that is until he looked up and saw the trace of a laugh in Richard's eyes. "Well, you're hardly here for your looks in any case," he replied with good humour. Mornings were good, mornings weren't the night.

The waiter brought back their order and as Tom sipped at his water the others ate breakfast with gusto. Harry kept an eye on the television which sat in one corner, but for some reason there were no reports of escaped convicts, terrorists, or in fact anything of the sort. He glanced out of the window.

Across the street lay a small park, hidden for the most part. Pointed bushes of yew stood like gravestones around the edge and in the centre a curling statue crouched in blue bronze. Nothing stirred save the leaves. He turned back to the others, and as he did so caught a glimpse of long red hair, the colour of a flaming sunset. Dismissing it he drained the last of his coffee, half imagining new found awareness flooding into him.

As they left the café he glanced over at the park. Beyond the stone wall, topped with long spikes nothing moved. There was no sign of the owner of the red hair. The park was empty.

Richard looked at him, evidently wondering why they had stopped. "Anything wrong? Have you seen gendarmes or something? Or shall we just carry on?"

Harry took one final look at the square of grass, leaves stirred in the breeze. A shiver ran down his spine and he shook himself. "Yeah, okay," he answered slowly, tearing his eyes away. "Nothing to worry about. Let's just pick up some food for the journey. I don't want to stop until evening."

The arable lands of France stretched away for miles on either side as they left Rheims. In the far distance the green flats eventually rose into low blue hills. Saint-Quentin vanished behind them shortly after they left the city and then they were out on the open road. In their wake first the city and then the town disappeared, swallowed up in the landscape as if they had never been.

The smell of recent rain on the dusty fields of Picardy soaked the car. Trees lined the road, marching along beside the speeding vehicle. Far to the left Harry caught sight of the spire of some small village climbing up above red tiled roofs, and then they were gone. Trees gave way to pylons, but eventually they too curved away and only the road remained.

* * *

"How far is it to Stuttgart?" Harry asked, glancing up through the windscreen at the first stars already dancing through the dusky pink glow of evening. The sun was edging close to the horizon, and the silvery sliver of the waning moon was already visible, outlined between pink and blue, at the edge of the night to come.

"Some way yet, we haven't reached the outskirts of the Black Forest," Richard answered wearily from the back seat.

"Any idea where we are?"

Richard glanced down at the map. "We're almost at Phalsbourg. After that it is just a few miles to the forest."

Harry chewed his lip. "I think we'll stop there for the night then. Do we have enough money to rent a room or two? I could do with a bed."

"Probably, the Ministry provided me with a generous fund for emergencies."

"Good. We'll call it a day then and stay the night here in Phalsbourg. If there's something attacking people in the Black Forest I don't want to go through it tired and at night."

There was no murmur of dissent and so Harry drove on through the quiet streets of the town. The buildings were covered in peeling, pastel paint, roofs sloped steeply down towards the ground. The green or grey doors sported by many of the houses only added to the atmosphere of decay, slow decline and dereliction which the town possessed and which the wooden shutters with their ageing coats of paint further enhanced.

Harry drove slowly, trying to avoid the potholes which littered those parts of the road not roughly patched up with uneven blobs of tarmac. As they went further in the dilapidation faded somewhat, the gates to various houses were in better repair, rust patches smaller and less frequent. In place of old paint many houses had plain, uniform, fronts of grey stone or cement. Sheltered from dusty winds by their neighbours they were clean and unmarred by dirt and debris. Edging the car round one of the many narrow corners Harry came to the central square. Neat, flat, ordered, surrounded and bounded by well-kept houses and smart businesses it looked like a postcard of the ideal town. In the centre a solid church of blackened stone, touched in places by green lichen, towered over the trees which grew in regimented paces among the parking lots.

Once out of the car Harry turned his head from side to side, assessing their surroundings. Without anywhere particular to aim for he set off at random, throwing his coat over his shoulders as he went. Tom, finally with a touch of life in his cheeks strode alongside him, Richard trailing in their wake.

Boots clicking on the pavement they wandered into the outer town once more, occasionally eliciting curious glances from children playing in the dust coated streets. Above the roof tops the sun sank lower, a thin line of red burning across the tiled roofs, rendering them black and featureless silhouettes in its fading light.

As the fresh paint gave way once more to pockmarked walls and pitted streets they saw the sign for the inn. It was a surprisingly English inn sign to find there, and yet there it was. It might have come from any town or village in England, supposing that the owner had been aiming for the "merrye Englande" look. The sign was made from thick, heavy, wood, with a painting upon it. The paint was too old though and too worn to determine what it had once been of. Despite that, yellow, homely lights shone out through the frosted panes of glass and from inside came the noise of laughter. A sign in the window read in German, French and English: _Drink! Board! Lodging! You won't find better!_

"Shall we?" Tom asked the others with a hint of bleak amusement at the look of revulsion pasted over Richard's face.

"What? Here?" Richard asked desperately.

"Sure," Harry shrugged, ignoring him. "I haven't seen anywhere else and it's getting late. Something tells me we want to be off the streets before nightfall." He looked about, there was a notable absence of other wanderers on the shadowy street.

"Couldn't we even_try_ to find somewhere else?"

Harry sighed, exhausted. "We don't even know if this place has any rooms available. We might as well try it." With that he pushed open the door. The inn smelt of the usual set of wine, beer; old alcohol soaked wood; a hint of overcooked meat; wood polish, and the mingling scents of different humans.

The bar was panelled in stained oak and above faux candles set in an iron chandelier shed warm light over the room. There were a few tables scattered here and there, largely occupied by locals although they seemed to pay no heed to Harry's entrance or that of his companions. To one side a doorway led away into a yellow painted side parlour. Behind the bar stood a thickly set man with short, greying hair and numerous wrinkles around his eyes which sparkled a light, sky blue.

Richard grudgingly went to the bar and began to ask the innkeeper something Harry supposed must be about renting a room in workman-like German.

"Hullo, you're English aren't you?" The innkeeper smiled broadly, his thick, ruddy, face bursting into a grin, "I'd recognise that accent anywhere. I'm a Coventry lad myself. Off for a stag-do or something?" he asked, looking at their clothes.

Harry realised with a start that his antique attire, not to mention Tom and Richard's own robes were hardly inconspicuous, particularly not among muggles.

"Something like that," Harry cut in, sticking out his hand in greeting. "Pleased to meet you by the way. I'm Harry. These are my friends, Richard and Tom." He smiled pleasantly. Behind him Tom scowled, but kept quiet.

The innkeeper stretched his arm over the worn surface of the bar and shook the proffered hand firmly. "Good to meet you, I'm Steve Barber. What can I do for you lads?"

"We were wondering if you had room for travellers, and supper if that can be done?"

"Not many come here for lodging nowadays," Steve chuckled dryly, "but I have rooms around the old place if you want them, and we can rustle up something for dinner easily enough."

"Thanks, you've got a good place here, reminds me of back home," Harry said, deciding that flattery could do no harm.

Steve's smile broadened. "Kind of you to say so. I'll go and have Susie dust up the rooms. How many do you want?"

"As long as we have separate beds one or two should be fine. Please don't bother to dust it if it is too much trouble," Harry protested.

"No trouble at all lad. She'll be happy, always telling me we need more travellers in here. Perhaps you're the start of an upturn in business."

"Let's hope so, eh? Looks as if the town's pretty quiet as it is," Harry remarked sympathetically.

"It is at that. The old folks say it hasn't been the same since the bad times. Though, honestly I wouldn't know, long, long before my time." Steve pursed his lips and grimaced. "Still, the future's yet young."

"I'll drink to that! What would you recommend by the way?" Harry leaned on the counter, swinging himself up onto a bar stool.

"Well," Steve considered the question carefully, "this brew is pretty good." He pointed out one of the taps with a golden bear on a black background. "Nice and bitter."

"Three pints then." Harry waved for Tom and Richard to come forward.

"I'll draw then now then, and have Susie set up the rooms ..."

"I would like to change that order, if you please," Tom interrupted, his voice cutting off conversation around the bar leaving only uncomfortable silence in its wake.

"Oh, right," Steve looked a touch put out, "what would you like then?"

"What is your wine selection, Mr Barber?"

"It's Steve, lad. We've got er … red, or … um … white?" It came out as a question as he looked into the fathomless eyes of Tom Riddle.

"Red then. If you would be so kind."

Steve nodded; for some reason unknown even to himself his good mood had largely drained away.

Harry stepped back in to salvage the atmosphere. "Anything going on tonight then? It seems busy in here at any rate?"

"Well, it would be," Steve puffed out his chest at the observation, "it's the story night. I started it up so all the old codgers round here can get together and tell a few yarns. The young folks too actually. That and Kluge is here again of course, not that she gets many challenges any more." The landlord pulled a pint and handed it to Harry before moving on to the next one.

"Challengers?"

"She plays chess against anyone who is willing to offer up something precious to them as a prize should she win. In exchange she offers up something important to her."

"She must either be very good or have a lot of things she feels are important if she's willing to do this regularly."

The landlord looked at him, honest face grinning again. "She's never lost a match. Here's your pint." He handed a glass to Richard.

"Where's she from? Is she local? Sorry, I suppose she must be if she comes to play here."

"Nah, she comes from some farmstead near the forest itself. She used to come here with her brother, but he doesn't show up anymore. Thinking of having a go?"

Harry sipped his pint, "Maybe, I got quite good at chess with an old friend of mine. It'd be fun to have a go."

"Good luck to you then, you'll need it. Anyway, got to be doing. I'll bring you a menu in a bit." He rushed off to deal with another customer, and to get the as yet unseen Susie to sort out rooms for them.

They ate a quiet supper at a table in the corner of the room, thick sausages and somewhat too fluffy potatoes amid other foods sating their appetite. For the most part they did not talk.

"Try not to upset our host will you Tom?"

"Stop calling me that," Tom replied without his usual rancor. "I'll try not to make him _too _put out."

"Thanks. More potatoes, Richard?"

Richard shook his head, pushing his plate away. He was about to speak when a hush fell over the bar. Steve was rapping a long wooden spoon against a copper gong and speaking loudly in German. At Harry's request Richard agreed to translate, "He says that the story-telling will start in fifteen minutes and once the first few stories are over Frau Kluge has offered up the chance for anyone to test their mettle against her. That's the gist of it anyway ..."

"_Why_ do you insist on constantly acting the tourist? It was perfectly good cover in France, but this is ridiculous!" Tom hissed in a frustrated whisper. "How am I to hear anything when you two keep jabbering on?"

Harry blinked in surprise, "You speak German?"

"No. Why should I ever bother to learn?" Tom looked at him in bemusement before it dawned. "You don't know how to do you? I'll give you a clue, most of the people here _can_ speak it."

Harry frowned, trying to understand what Tom had meant. "You're using leglimancy to draw on their base knowledge of their own language aren't you?"

Tom nodded, "Full marks Potter, well done."

"That's a bit immoral isn't it? Just sifting through other people's brains."

"Why?" He sounded genuinely puzzled. "Surely even you can't feel it is wrong. I don't even hurt them, and it helps keep me safe," Tom continued airily. "Now shut up and just lower your shields. You know I can't take a peek, and I doubt anyone else here could."

Harry looked away across the bar, though he would never let Tom know it he never kept up occlumancy shields except when absolutely necessary. The bloody things gave him infernal headaches. Still he was pretty disciplined by now so just extending his mental reach by a touch shouldn't be too hard … for a second he was lost in the wave of competing thoughts. _This must be what it was like for Luna_, he thought dreamily before he came crashing back to reality, his mind screaming at him **never** to do that again. He rubbed his temples. A more individual approach might be a good idea he decided.

Filtering the thoughts away to leave only a basic level of understanding was tricky, trickier even than he had expected, but he had still managed it, to some degree anyway. He left the calm island of his mind upon the raft of other people's thoughts just in time to hear the second story teller finish with, "so she rode away along the golden road the sun had made for her across the sea, and as she reached the end he set, flaming beyond the horizon of this world. And since that time he has let the green flash light the heavens so that her family and friends might know she was safe and yet lived."

There was a polite and in some cases enthusiastic, round of applause.

"Right then, for our third story teller of the evening, I offer you ..." Steve pulled a name out of a hat, "the masterly Herr Eisenburg!"

An old man with skin so wrinkled and brown that he looked like peach stone, with deep set eyes, so overshadowed by his brow that their colour was indistinguishable stepped forward. He was still straight backed, despite his obvious age and white hair floated lightly around his head in patches like a seeding bullrush. He seated himself in the chair the previous storytellers had sat in and began in a deep, clear voice which lapped like waves against the shore of silence.

"We all know the terror which besets the great forest even as we sit here, safe and warm. Like the night which prowls outside these windows it waits in the shadows for us, ever ready to strike down the unsuspecting and the unwary."

The room stilled around him as he spoke, patrons and bartenders hardly moving an inch, though one or two cast each other nervous glances.

"Many think that this is a new evil which has come to plague our already God-forsaken land. A new catastrophe, following in the wake of so many others, but it is not so. Long before the golden days this terror walked.

"There was at that time a Count who ruled over much of this land and was exceedingly wealthy. He was not, however, a greedy or cruel man as might have been expected, rather he was kind and gentle. The vast lands he owned supported him well, despite the low taxes he imposed upon his people.

"His fellow lords thought him weak because of his desire for peace though, and one in particular menaced him demanding tribute. The Count refused, for he knew that were he to comply, the lord, one named Aben, would demand more and more until the Count and his people were driven into misery and poverty.

"Aben was greatly angered by the Count's defiance and much desired vengeance. However, he could do little directly, for the Count had the aid and advice of a mighty sorcerer, whose name has been removed from knowledge for fear that another might use his spirit to do great evil. The lord Aben was cunning though and had no small skill in wizardry himself. For many months he pored through dusty, long forgotten tomes, and sought arcane secrets from the hags who still dwelt in the Black Forest in those days.

"At last as the blood Moon rose over his castle he reached his hands to the heavens and called upon the blackest of magics. From shadow, from blood, from the coldness of men's hearts and the fear of the night it was formed, and its heart and mind were those of a daemon.

"The first the Count knew of it was when he was out riding and happened upon a field of red grass. Seeing this curious sight he called the farmer to him and asked how the field came to be this colour, for never in all his born days had he seen such a thing.

"'Oh sir, 'tis a terrible calamity,' cried the farmer. 'Only yesterday this field was filled with my fifty finest sheep. When I came to them this morning they were gone, and this ...' he gestured to the crimson grass, 'is their blood, shed upon the grass, and all that I now have left of them.'

"Upon saying this the farmer burst into tears for without his livestock he did not see how he or his family would live. The Count thanked him, gave him coin in recompense for his lost sheep and promised to look into the matter.

"For sometime he heard nothing more, but gradually the merchants who had frequented the land began to come no more. Woodsmen travelled in larger and larger groups, though even forces as many as a score or more vanished without trace into the forest.

"The Count and his friend, the wizard decided at last that their best option was to hunt down the monster who so plagued the land themselves. They laid a bait for it with many livestock and hid, invisible under the wizard's art until it at last arrived. Its hide was as black as midnight and its claws were as scimitars. Its eyes were raven-like, coal black and filled with the hatred which the infernal always bear for the mortal world.

"It moved with long, loping bounds and within moments the livestock were dead. It devoured them. Sucking the blood from their bodies and the marrow from their bones before gorging itself on their flesh. The Count drew his sword and would have struck then, but his friend held him back.

"'Hold fast my friend,' murmured the wizard, 'this base beast is not of natural ilk. Some enemy of thine must have sent it hither to do great ill unto you. Wait, if we follow it to its lair we may yet put an end to this.'

"Grudgingly the Count acknowledged the wisdom of his friend's words and waited. At last, bloated by the heavy meal the daemon slunk slowly away. They followed, riding upon the winds of the magician's magic as the wizard's indescribable hat teetered on his head.

"It led them by stream, river and hill, over great swathes of forest, and at last they came to the craggy castle of lord Aben. The walls were empty of life, and as they grew close they saw that only rotting corpses guarded the gate, dressed in rusted mail, their hearts ripped from their chests by the daemon. Weeds grew among the cobbles. It loped through the shattered doors of oak and into the keep. They followed with silent tread, passing decaying servants and rotting tapestries until at last they came to the chapel.

"The sight which greeted them there was worse than all which had come before. The body of the priest hung, disembowelled above the altar, long dead. His blood still flowing by accursed means dripped to the creature, which curled below upon the floor. The priest had been sacrificed to permit the entrance of the daemon to this world, that much at least was evident; bloody, ragged sigils, carved deep into his flesh revealed it. In the corner crouched lord Aben, laughing madly. His mind had been ravaged, though his body was intact, left as an amusing toy by the daemon which fed him on the flesh of his men and those others it caught.

"Then the Count stepped forward, away from the cloak of invisibility which lay over the wizard. He sprang towards the creature and whisked his sword down. As it whistled through the air he stepped forward and the rain of blood hit him. He saw the truth as the blood soaked his tunic, and at the same instant his sword slammed home at the nape of the monster's neck. Steel shattered like ice as it crashed down on the impenetrable hide. The beast awoke with a scream of rage, its tail thrashing from side to side, splintering pews like matchsticks.

"The count was knocked to the wall, ribs bursting through his skin and tunic, blood spraying out between his fingers. As the beast loomed over him he threw out his hand, blood sacrificed not for any one man or woman but for all struck the daemon. It reared away, hissing in agony. He staggered to his feet and limping, advanced upon it. A life had been unwillingly taken in this place to bring the daemon into the world; to free his people of the scourge he had but one choice. Trusting his friend to do what must be done he thrust the broken blade, still clasped in his hand, into his own heart!"

The audience gasped as the story teller thumped his hand against his chest. All sound, even breathing ceased.

"His blood gushed out, he fell forward and a great wind swept through the castle, ripping the shutters from their fastenings. The daemon screamed as it dissolved into the ether. The wizard leapt forward and forced the daemon's spirit into the golden cross which still stood, rocking upon the altar. Leaving the wicked lord alive in his madness he left the castle. With the help of a goldsmith he sealed the daemon's spirit inside a crystal, run through with veins of silver and gold from the cross, and it was named the Daemon's bane. The Count was buried with great honour by his people for his sacrifice and peace came to the land.

"Now though the terror walks again. We hear its cry among the trees, we see the traces of its passage, and we fear empty places at our tables."

The applause was muted, almost non-existent. After a few moments Steve coughed nervously.

"Right, well … thanks for that. Now there will be a short intermission before the next two more stories and then Frau Kluge will be happy to take anyone who dares on. Any contests will be occurring in the parlour."

Harry sat back, his mind buzzing. There were obviously aspects of the story which lacked a knowledge of how magic worked, but still there was something there … He pondered it, almost entirely oblivious to the following stories. All he could remember of them was that the first was about a child named Roland, a church and the elf-king, and that the second spoke of a woman who wandered misty moors searching for a ring she had lost long ago.

The story ended and he stood up, the diamond paned window by his shoulder was a rich, deep, blue, shot through with golden light from a nearby street lamp.

"I'm going to take a shot at playing Kluge. I guess I'll see the pair of you in a bit," he explained, noticing Richard's questioning look.

He squinted around the room, but the old man who had told the story of the Count had vanished. At the bar Steve was pulling a set of pints for a group of young men and women with light blonde hair and cheerful smiles.

He pushed his way through the crowd and into the next room. At a table near the wall a woman of about thirty sat, long, dark copper hair bound back with a black hair band. A strand or two fell over her face, flopping down past her eyebrows. Her appearance shocked him, making him realise that he had expected something else, though what he had no idea. She had fair skin dotted with occasional freckles and speckled with a few old chickenpox and perhaps the faintest trace of acne scars. Her clothes were hard wearing, made in forest colours, thick despite the time of year. For whatever reason most of the others in the room were almost avoiding looking towards her, even going out of their way not to come too close. A chess board lay in front of her, as yet the pieces were still sitting in a box beside her.

"Good evening," he said as he reached the table.

"Good evening, have you come to challenge me?" She asked the question with a small smile.

"I …" the realisation that she had spoken in English struck him. "You speak English? How did you know _I _spoke English?"

"I have a _very _good ear for accents. And yes, I speak English. My grandparents were insistent that we should."

"But, but … I only said hello ..." he spluttered in shock.

She laughed, her face splitting into a crooked grin, "Don't worry. Steve told me that a young, dark haired, Englishman with glasses wished to challenge me. I don't get many challengers nowadays, so I guessed it must be you." Her smile widened, curling upwards in one corner to reveal a few of her teeth.

Harry snorted with amusement. "Huh. Well done, you got me there. Yes though, I do want to challenge you."

"Very well," she leaned back in her chair, flicking her tongue over the canine, "what do you offer as a prize then? You look as if you're travelling light, I'm surprised you have anything with you this far from home."

Harry frowned, he'd forgotten that aspect. He rummaged through the pockets of his coat. At last his fingers closed on something that trembled slightly in his grip and then fell still. Slowly he drew his closed fist from his pocket, in his hand he held a tiny, golden, ball, feather thin wings clasped to the sides. He thumbed it fondly.

"I won this a long time ago," he half whispered as he stared at it, lost in memories. "An old teacher left it to me. It's supposed to open, I think, but I never found out how to do it." He looked at it sadly. "I'm sorry, I can't offer this, which only leaves me with my name really."

She looked at him, her eyes dancing under the lights, her expression strangely sympathetic, "Sit down. I'll take the bet. If you win I will tell you my _real _name. If I win you tell me yours. Steve couldn't remember it. How does that sound?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Seems reasonable. Thank you, I didn't imagine you'd be so accommodating."

"You have no idea how long it's been since I had a good game, and I think you'd give me one." She shrugged lightly. "Ready to begin?"

He nodded absently as she set up the board, it was made of old, finely carved wood, the white playing pieces so tarnished by players that they were barely distinguishable from the black.

"Would you mind if I looked over the pieces? Just to make sure I know which are which."

"Be my guest," she put down the last piece: the black king, "which side would you like to play with?"

Harry considered the question and gave a wry smile. "Black I think."

"Appropriate, I think. You suit the role of the King in Black," she replied as she spun the board around.

The pieces were suited to their colours. Harry turned them over, one by one, until at last he came to the black king. It had a faintly vulpine look and the wood was scored over and over as if covered by tiny hairs. Around his brow was wrapped a thin circlet. The piece sat on a tall throne, head on hand as if looking out gloomily upon the carnage to come.

Harry turned the piece over in his hand, feeling the hard grain of the wood under his fingers as he stared at it. "What are they made of?"

"Yew," she pointed to the yellowed white pieces, "and blackthorn. Ready to play?"

"Yes, okay."

She slid forward a pawn, wood scraping on wood.

"I hear you come from near the forest," he began as he played his move.

"Yes," she stared at the board for a few moments and added another pawn to a spearlike formation.

"Any truth in that story the old man was telling?" He decided to take the initiative and carefully moved a black pawn into a threatening position.

White took black. "I wouldn't know, I wasn't listening," she answered curtly, her pawn thumping down hard enough on the board that the figures wobbled with the impact.

He took a pawn back in exchange. "Oh, it was probably nothing. Just some story about something going on around here. People going missing and so on and so forth."

"Why do you want to know?" she asked sharply, her queen sweeping in to put him in check.

He calmly parried the move. "Well, my friends and I are journeying through the Black Forest tomorrow and I just wanted to be sure it'd be safe."

"In day time? Probably. Just don't stop for _anything_," she grunted, quietly bringing a knight into play; a horseman rearing wildly on a great stallion, broad brimmed hat shading his features.

"You make it sound serious, I thought it might just be a story which hit a raw nerve," he lied easily as he considered his move.

"No," she looked at him steadily, " no, I wish it were. I lost my brother to whatever is out there. I don't know if it is men or something else, but when I come to town I do not go home at night. Paths are best walked by daylight."

They played on in silence. Harry decided not to press her, to do so when she was grieving her brother would be unfair. A flurry of moves, black took white, white took black. Back and forward across the board their pieces danced in a series of thrusts, ripostes, parries and feints. At one moment Harry was sure that he would swoop to victory, only for her forces to encircle him, pick off a soldier and withdraw. He could see the tide of battle swinging into her favour by slow, grudging steps. He had spent years playing chess at first with Ron and then in memory of Ron when they had parted ways, but no trick worked against her. Wherever his forces prepared to strike they found hers waiting to defend and strike in turn.

At last he was reduced to playing desperate gambits in an effort to stave off the inevitable. He winced as her rook swept away his last surviving bishop leaving him facing imminent defeat.

"Ouch, I'm glad you changed the stakes after all. I haven't had a match like this in decades."

"Decades? You can't be much older than I am, younger if I'm a judge." She gave a bark of laughter, closing the net around his king.

There was always the chance she'd make a mistake and they'd end up with a stalemate. He played on. "I'm older than I look you know."

"Hmm, how old's that then?" She slid her queen closer. One more till checkmate. The black king toppled over, defeated.

She held out her hand and he shook it. "Good game. So how old?"

"I never promised to tell you that," he said with a wink and a grin. Around them the pub-goers were filtering out one by one. A sudden fit of gallantry hit him, "Are you staying nearby tonight? I can walk you back if you'd care."

She quirked her lips in an expression of amusement, "That won't be necessary, thank you. Steve lets me stay here when I come to play."

"Oh well then …" he felt a small bubble of hope which he hadn't realised had risen burst, "I guess I'll have to walk you back. My friends and I are staying the night here too."

She smiled warmly, "In that case it would be lovely. First though I must collect on what you owe me ..."

"Harry, Harry Potter," he said surprising himself with the truth.

A vague look flickered across her face for a moment and then faded. "A pleasure Mr Potter."

"Do I get to know your name?"

She laughed, a throaty bark of sound. "Oh no, you didn't win. Perhaps if you come back and play me again some other time. For now though you may walk me to my room."

Harry sank backwards onto the narrow bed which creaked under his weight. He was sitting in the low attic room which he and Tom were sharing. Richard had claimed the single room on the floor below and upon seeing the fuchsia pink walls even Tom had raised no objections to sharing a room.

"Hardly."

The silence stretched on. Outside a nightbird called, below the window a pair of feet walked along, the muffled tread echoing in the lamplit street.

"Why are you still here?"

Tom looked at him with a level gaze, "What do you mean?"

"I know you don't want to be here. I know why you didn't escape on the train. Why are you still here now though?"

Tom looked up at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head. "Let's just say that for the moment I am protecting investments I would prefer not to lose."

Harry lay awake for some time. A hero never gives up, no matter the cost they fight on until victory or death for what is _right_. What does that make a man who makes a deal with the Devil for peace?

**A/N:** If anyone can tell me what any of the three works I have consciously referenced in here (excluding Harry Potter) are I will describe a character after their appearance should they so wish (I will give a list of characters who will be appearing, that I can think of). Just give a review with the work in and your appearance (please be honest) and I will fulfil my end of the bargain. The tale of Roland does not count.


	6. Interlude

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter.

**A/N:** Thank you very much to those who reviewed the last chapter and the story so far, it means a great deal. Thank you in particular to Man of Constant Sorrow for his in depth review and to Wulffe for his continual support.

Oh yes, the story has passed 2000 views, so thank you very much to all of you who have decided to stick with it.

**An Interlude in Two Parts **

_Malfoy Manor: The Fourth of March_

Livia creeps up the polished floor of the long dining room, her fingers brushing softly over the inky black wood of the table. The air is still, untouched by the wind which blows outside the delicate windows, it is almost stifling, each soft breath is a thunderclap of sound in the air. The smells of wood, wax and swept ashes permeate the room. Thick, dark green curtains lie half closed, letting in only a few, thin beams of watery light. Dust motes dance through them spiralling in and out, caught in the vortex of her movement. At the head of the table, facing away from her as he stares up at the family tapestry, stands her grandfather.

He speaks softly, without turning, "Hello Livia. How goes it in the Wizangamot?"

"Poorly Grandfather. The lords refuse to see the need for a treaty with Argentina. They believe we are invincible," she steps closer, her fathomless eyes taking in every detail, absorbing, calculating.

He very nearly chuckles, "How appropriate. Hoist by our own propaganda. What fools we mortals be. We never see the bigger picture when we do things do we?" His long, velvet robe billows around him as he turns, curling like a dragon's wing.

"Don't worry Grandfather, they can be won over, it will simply take time. Perhaps a concession on the no-bloods ..." she suggests, they both know it is what the lords have been angling for.

"We can't," he answers shortly, "I may have betrayed my own beliefs, those of my father and all my forefathers before him. However, I will not back down now. New blood is still," he spits the word with distaste, "_necessary_, the long war did too much damage.

"If the lords were to think for once they'd realise that their own blood is hardly pure. Who do they even think is left? The Blacks? The Dumbledores? Perhaps they think heirs to the Longbottom and Prewett names will spring from the earth if they pray hard enough. Maybe the Gaunts and the Peverells will return and set all to rights," he mocks, bitter hatred for all who are not of his own line filling his mouth, "there is hardly single one of the old houses left now, save Malfoy."

"I know Grandfather, but they want acknowledgement that they are different … better."

"Everyone wants that. I have something better to give them though. Fear. They hardly love me, but we can make them remember that they fear others enough to cling to hems of our robes when in need. The two idiots we sent to the Princess have already kicked a hornet's nest into life, I just received the report this morning," his eyes sparkled, diamonds in human flesh.

"Really? But how?"

"They decided the best way to get across the border was in a blaze of fire. The French are on the verge of declaring war on us. Hush, hush, do not panic. They won't for the moment, though delightfully war is even more impossible to avoid than before and it should be on our terms. Ironically we've been able to play the entire affair as something the French cooked up themselves, not to mention the mess they made of the gate at Calais should provide our agents with an unparalleled opportunity.

"On a completely unrelated note, did you hear about Nott? Poor fellow committed suicide yesterday. I wonder what could have driven him to it …" he smiles thinly and pauses to savour the thought. A knock at the door brings him from his reverie and he scowls. "Come in."

A diminutive house-elf with rust coloured skins which hangs from him in crusty folds enters the room, bowing low, "Master, the goblin ward-lord Master summoned is here. Must Bucket bring them in?" His voices scrapes the air like old nails dragged down a blackboard.

"Very shortly. Offer them drinks and food. Make sure they each are given bread, salt and wine. Tell me if any of them refuse. I will summon you when I am free to see them," Draco replies, not even bothering to look at the elf before he turns his attention back to Livia. "Damn it all, I expected it to be another half hour at least before they arrived. I'm afraid I must ask you to go my dear, will I see you at supper?"

Livia bites her lip, wondering if she is permitted to ask the question which has bubbled to the forefront of her mind, "Yes, of course." She takes the plunge, "Grandfather … do we even know they are still loyal? I know it won't matter in the long run, but ..."

"My dear, their loyalty was never the point. I thought you would have known that," there is a vague hint of disappointment in his voice.

"How could I have known Grandfather? You never tell us anything."

"Of course not Livia," he really does sound pained now, "if I told even half of what I knew or suspected you'd have killed me long ago. Were it not for the fact that the recent assassination attempts have been so half hearted I might have thought you were behind them."

"Come now Grandfather ..."

"Do not think of lying to _me _child, I'd be hurt if I thought you had no plots or plans to overthrow me. It would be most disappointing," he finishes calmly, the flash of fury dying away in an instant. Livia looks at him sceptically, he is probably speaking in jest. Probably.

"Grandfather, I promise you won't ever hear of a plot against your life which I organise."

"That's my girl. Anyway, I personally am banking on the fact that they will be predictably disloyal.

"For now all we need do is think of a way to make sure Potter maintains focus, if he does he'll drag our erstwhile lord along with him. You don't know him as I do, as long as he remembers his duty to those he thinks he owes a debt to he'll be doing our bidding. If you think of anything tell me in person, some matters are too delicate for floo calls. I have a plan which I will put into action if nothing better comes up," he smiles genially at her before waving her towards one of the many concealed doors of the room and taking the tall, black, throne of a chair which sits at the end of the table, underneath the family tree.

"I'll see to it Grandfather. I just came in to say that Astoria's portrait is asking for you again ..." she trails off, she can't even remember how many times she has reported the portrait's plea.

"Thank you," his reply is soft, but bears no promise that he will go to see his late wife. Livia leaves the room.

_A good girl, Livia_, he muses as he snaps his fingers for Bucket, _though it probably won't be too long before she is chafing at the bit for more power again. Certainly one to keep an eye on, at least now that her daughter in law is expecting._

The goblins enter, five of them abreast. They are dressed for peaceful conversation, clad suits of ceremonial, silver, armour with hardly a weapon in sight, save for the swords strapped to their backs, and the pistols by their sides. A wyvern crested helm stands tall on their leader's head, adding another foot to his height. Draco nods to them, politely, although he refuses to stand. It would not be dignified for the Minister to do otherwise, these are but servants of the goblin nation.

The leader of the goblins speaks first, careful not to bare his teeth as he does so, this is not the time for threats, "Draco, master of house Malfoy, and Minister of the wizards and witches of Great Britain and her provinces, I ward-lord of Gringotts thank you for extending your hospitality to me and mine thus far."

Draco gestures for them to sit as he speaks, goblins are proud, to refuse one's titles is a sign of weakness and almost as great an insult as failing to appropriately greet a guest, "Greetings, Nastrond, high ward-lord and marshal of house Drapnuk. I offer you hospitality and safety within these walls." Draco can hardly resist the desire to sneer, ridiculous creatures with their high and mighty titles, though at least in the case of goblins they earn them.

"We accept most gratefully and swear that no harm shall come to you or yours by our hands," the wyvern helmed goblin croaks, finishing the formalities. "Now down to business, our time here is brief."

"I have only two requests of you," Draco begins pleasantly, he needs to make the lure interesting enough for them to help, "first I wish to consult your expertise on wards, and secondly, I would like you deliver a request: I desire to meet the present Goblin King."

Nastrond's eyes narrow into dark slits, "There has been no Goblin King in five hundred years. Are you implying that my kind have broken the long held truce?"

Draco yawns, teeth barely concealed behind thin lips, "Come now, we both know that isn't true. I killed the last Goblin king … sorry I mean one of the latest Goblin Kings, myself a hundred years ago."

"A rebel, he was not recognised as a king."

Draco draws himself up, even sitting he is taller than the four guards who have fanned out around Nastrond, "I do not _care_, you can have your kings, it means nothing to me. What I want is to meet him. I have a deal to propose, a deal which I _think_ he will gladly accept. I even have a token of goodwill for him, if you are willing to consider it."

Nastrond pauses, unwilling to pass up an opportunity for unconstrained profit, he can always refuse the deal later, "Go on ..."

"If you pass my message on to the king, whether or not he agrees to meet I will tell you the location of the only living man who has successfully stolen from you," a tight look of enjoyment flickers over Draco's face. Goblins can never resist the opportunity to revenge a slight.

Nastrond's eyes close for a moment as he deliberates. Opening his obsidian eyes once more he splays his long fingers on the wood of the table, "I fear I am not the goblin for this task, Lord Malfoy," he deprecates, stalling for time, "Perhaps if you pay the commission for the consultation on the wards we can arrange a meeting between an ambassador and your good self."

Draco inclines his head politely, "An excellent suggestion, with one minor problem. I wish to meet the king, not his servants. I fear I might become uncooperative if you did not make sure that the Goblin King himself is notified, and it has to be said that he might execute his own wrath upon you should he find that you, by your hesitation, refused the bargain I am offering. The second part of the price I will pay is, I assure you, something he would be interested in."

"Would you care to elaborate?" Suggests the goblin, fuming internally.

"No," Draco replies simply, "now you can give me your answer at the end of the consultation. As to payment for your opinion on the small matter of the trans-Channel wards you will find that it shall be transferred from the Ministry's private vaults to those of Gringotts in unmarked bars of gold."

Nastrond scowls, he does not have the political weight to negotiate with the Minister as an equal, but it galls him to serve as a messenger, "Very well."

"It is quite simple really, would you as Gringotts' high ward-lord be prepared to state that the wards between Europe and Britain are impenetrable without inside help?"

Nastrond does smile this time, though the effect is not pleasant, "I really couldn't comment Minister, it would take time to think through the problems, and time is gold."

"How much … _time_ would you need?" Draco asks, goblins are wonderfully straight forward when it comes to making agreements. Nastrond's opposite in France is almost certainly making a parallel agreement at this moment. Sometimes you just need to balance the playing field to win.

"I think that three days at my usual rate will do. You should get the reply you requested at about the same time," Nastrond's smile widens until he bares far, far too many teeth for any human mouth.

Draco nods again, more slowly this time, Nastrond's rates are … somewhat extortionate to say the least, but he can't afford to offend the goblin any more than he already has done,"That sounds wonderful. I look forward to our next meeting."

"Oh I sincerely doubt that we will _ever_ meet again Lord Malfoy. I sincerely doubt it," and without the usual formalities that accompanied an exit Nastrond stood, gives a curt bow, spins on his heel and marches out of the room followed by his guards.

Draco sits there for a time, his eyes closed, twirling his wand between his fingers. All signs of arthritis which appear when he is in company forgotten. His fingers itch to test their power, to train, to prepare for what is to come.

He sighs, he is too tired for that now, unfortunately. There is something about dealing with goblins which always tires him out. It is, he suspects, the constant combination of forthrightness and double dealing, not that Nastrond bothered with that today. He smiles softly and alone in the room he begins to hum. With a snap of his fingers a map of the world materialises on the table in front of him, small figures dotted over its surface. It looks somewhat like a Risk board.

He slides a figure over the English channel into the section devoted to Calais. There are quite a lot of figures there now, a small army in fact. A set of miniatures of goblins materialises at the top of the board, ready to be deployed, and in Germany three tiny figures are set to cross the Black Forest.

* * *

_A remote corner of China: The fifth of March_

Figures who had once scurried over the dig site like a swarm of maddened ants now sat around or lay in their tents, avoiding the baking heat of the day. Activity had long since dropped to nothing as they waited for permission to continue. Two or three muggleborns had even set up a rudimentary tennis court and were working on creating rackets and teaching the others to play. So far the string's tension had been terrible and most of the time the players resorted to ping-pong like bats.

The French government, which had been forced to promise a number of favours to the Chinese Republic and its Grand Wizard in order to gain permission to begin the dig, had called a sudden halt to the dig after a particularly exceptional find. The dig itself was not terribly out of the ordinary, it had been commissioned on the basis of a research paper by the leading magio-archaeologist of the Spring period of the Eastern Zhou dynasty. That same archaeologist was now out from behind her desk and leading the expedition to her great pleasure. What was unusual was that the Département de l'Inconnaissable had taken an interest and funded the dig.

The reason for the interest? Michelle Ego, leader of the expedition could not have told you. The site _was,_ her paper had argued, the location of the defeat of the African sorcerer Mustaphar, greatest and most feared wizard of his age. According to myth he had been defeated by the thief Alah-al-din, as some called him, and his allies. Michelle did not listen to myth, she listened to facts. If she listened to myth she would be off hunting things like the Elder Wand, not a battle site.

So far all the evidence supported her paper and research application. They had found numerous traces of magical residue resonating throughout the hill, and even a shrine or two. The shrines had probably been built by _muggles_ to the gods they must have believed had waged war upon the spot, but it was still interesting no matter who built them. The most remarkable discovery through had come only weeks before.

They had uncovered a perfectly preserved statue of a man, carved, or maybe even melted and moulded by magic. No chisel mark or scratch of power marred the ashen stone and even the eyelashes were still perfectly preserved beneath the heavy brow. Though not tall, perhaps even marginally shorter than Michelle, there was something impressive about him, something which drew the eye. The statue was wearing a long, cowled robe, decorated by occasional tassels, knots and love charms, so precisely picked out in stone that they might have been woven into the coarse cloth, if both had not been made from a single, flawless lump of rock. His right hand was extended, pointing to some unseen foe, the thick index finger jabbing accusingly. A short beard, hardly more than stubble, covered the broad, frozen chin and drifted up the cheeks. The face was contorted in anger, mouth open in a cry of rage, dark brows drawn together beneath a furrowed line.

It was this discovery which had sent the Ministry supervisors of the dig dashing back to France, and now it seemed that whether or not the dig was to be continued the government had decided to send a team of the finest, most experience and most expensive cursebreakers and enchanters to do something. They were one and all legendary, if only in many cases for their mercenary natures. Bounty hunters looked good next to these witches and wizards.

Michelle sighed as she longingly dusted the last of the clay from the statue's eyes with a fine, unicorn-hair brush. Magic was far too dangerous to risk around a find like this; not that it mattered much, magic seemed to fail more often than not around the digsite. If that had not been the case she would at least have had a cooling charm on the tent, for her sake that was, not for the Dark Prince as she had christened the statue in a moment of romanticism. She wiped a grubby hand across her forehead, streaking the beads of perspiration across the dust.

It was heartbreaking really. All her research, all of the excavations she and her team had done. The painstaking care which had been taken at every step, and now it was almost certain her greatest find would be snatched from under her nose by the Département de l'Inconnaissable. _Bastards_.

The blue canvas of the tent rippled around her in a soft breeze. She started, shock out of her reverie by the gentle zephyr. Straightening up she reluctantly decided that she ought to go and freshen up. There was a faint hope that she might be able to plead her case to the Ministry official who would be leading the mercenaries.

"Good luck old man, I hope they take care of you," she murmured before turning and leaving the tent. There was _so_ much she could have learnt from him, if only she'd had more time: styles of dress; the way in which he had been created; the techniques used to do it; possessions a wizard might have been expected to carry. The Chinese conception of African sorcerers in the sixth century would have made a magnificent paper, the statue could have revolutionised the entire field. To see such an artefact – the statue of one of the most terrible magicians in known history – a statue dating almost from the time of Mustaphar's defeat … it was extraordinary, thrilling even. The sky was slowly filling with rolling masses of black cloud, spreading down from the north like ribbons of sea stained kelp. Only the very top of the mass, still illuminated by the sunlight was still a bright, startling white.

Twenty minutes later the Ministry official, a tall, pale young man with small glasses and a thin nose appeared, followed by the cursebreakers who eyed the camp with the eyes of hungry wolves.

"Bloody tomb raiders," she muttered as the official approached her, shooing a haughty looking pigeon out of his path.

With a nod from the official the cursebreakers set off for the blue tent in the centre of the camp, eager to examine the statue, barely pausing as they met the security charms the archaeologists had set around it. Michelle suppressed a surge of anger at their arrogance and turned to the Ministry official, smiling sweetly.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," she began, stepping towards him.

He cut her off abruptly, "Mademoiselle, the Ministry thanks you for being so obliging. However, I am under orders to insist that you and your team are to leave this area immediately. I am sure you will act with alacrity," he smiled at her, brushing a lock of chestnut hair away from his forehead as he spoke. Despite her annoyance she felt her heart miss a beat, dammit, but he was good looking.

From the tent behind her she heard muttered incantations, and even where she stood the flares of magic were making the hairs on her spine prickle.

"I don't think you understand the importance of what we've found here. The artefact which your hired monkeys are quite possibly destroying is of irreplaceable historical impor …" she began, plastering the smile back onto her face, quashing the desire to scream at him to make them stop before they damaged her priceless statue. What were they doing that they needed cursebreakers anyway?

"Mademoiselle, I understand better than you think. Perhaps even better than you do. I am sorry, but I _must_ ask you to leave now," the hint of urgency in his voice was clear now and she noticed that his eyes flickered between her and the tent with a frantic, desperate, fear.

"Why? At least tell me that," the indignation was clear in her voice as she shifted her position to one of sturdy defiance, catching onto his sleeve as he made to push past her. If she had to leave the crowning achievement of her career behind she would be damned if she didn't know why.

"I can't. This mission is paramount to the security of the state. That should be enough for you. That _must_ be enough for you."

"I'm sorry, but it isn't. If your blockheads destroy a _priceless _artefact the least you can tell me is why," she felt sickened at the note of pleading in her voice but refused to move her ground.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before he answered, "How much do you know about the statue and the man it represents? Briefly."

She frowned, puzzled, "It is a statue of the sorcerer Mustaphar, who came to China in the sixth century BC, in order to obtain a rare magical object and to continue his practice of defeating the greatest local wizards and forcing their magical submission to him. The statue is easily identifiable …"

He held up a hand to stop her, his eyes focussing on her shoes, "Very good, very good. Now what does legend say happened to him?"

"Legend," she said, injecting those two syllables with as much derision as she could, "has it that he was beaten by a muggle thief. The legend is patently ridiculous. We should stick to the known facts."

He nodded without much feeling, "True, but remember that legend also says that he was aided by one of the djinn, perhaps the greatest and last of all their number even. Crucially, the magic of the djinns does not allow them to kill ..."

She blanched, "You can't mean ..."

Away over the hills thunder rolled in a deep booming wave, the sound crashing down, pounding the air like gargantuan fists.

"I can, and I do. Why do you think the Ministry agreed to fund this in the first place? Now the time really has come for you to leave," he looked down at her like a stork watching some infinitely smaller bird and wishing that it too could shelter from the storm which was coming. She realised for the first time that his pallor was not natural. "You have your explanation."

"You're going to wake him? Are you insane? You won't even be able to talk to him!" She shouted over the gathering wind, her voice barely audible as it whipped around them.

"Go Mademoiselle Ego. I have already told you more than my job is worth and quite possibly more than my life too. I am the Ministry's official representative to him. What happens next is my own affair, I have my duty to perform," he wrenched his sleeve from her grasp and began walking down the dusty grass towards the tent. For a moment she looked after him before she hurried away, frantically gathering people together and urging them to leave.

The spell binding the statue was a work of art. A chain of spells, looped, locked and interlinked to preserve the target as stone forever, never dying, never changing. A frozen moment of time for eternity. It was not even particularly complex, created by a being who saw the rivers of magic as they truly were. A being who might shift mountains or call down the storm at will, the spell simply was. Elegant, refined, perfect. The ward experts could do little, this magic relied on no runes, no bypassing of hidden traps or subtle contests of ingenuity, rather it was a living thing, ever changing, swirling around not just the statue but the hill as well. Even so the cursebreakeres were making headway, channelling power into the various sections of the spell so that piece by piece they forced other segments out of alignment. The magic as a whole was reaching critical levels. Light spiralled and spilled into the room from _elsewhere_ in so many colours that it would have made the rainbow bridge of Bifrost look dull by comparison.

"Containment shields in place," announced a blue haired, Ukranian, woman as she flicked her wand once more and scuttled backwards to place a small, flat sandstone pebble the size of a two pence piece, a single rune carved precisely into the soft stone. Pressing her wand to it she poured power into the rune before running backwards once more, bent over like a crab.

"Secondary wards prepared," another of them called, his forked beard shaking as a great wind whirled around them with a sigh as if the spirits of the forgotten were finding their way home. Dust lifted into the air, tiny lightnings of power crackled inside the shield.

"Sandstone? Really?" One whose accent might have been Russian asked incredulously even as he began to pour in power along with the others. A blue dome of light rose around the area which the night of them surrounded and within it a second of pale gold, protecting them from all that occurred within.

She shrugged, "It'll release its power faster if we have an unexpected burst of power, less likely to get a cascade that effects us this way. If _I _were in charge we'd do a final heavy duty ward in dragonbone in any case …"

"Takes too much time, these will block most spells, and if anything forces a cascade it won't be too large for the containment shields to cope. I think nine of us ought to be able to restrain one old wizard who has been a rock for the last couple of millennia"

Magic surged inside the ward with a sudden ferocity, the air split apart with a howling moan and dust whirled in a tornado behind the shields. A crack of thunder which might have come from inside or outside the tent sounded and all was still. There was silence. They peered into the dry, brown, floating dust. From inside the wards came a rusty, coughing, breath and then after a pause another. There was a thump and the air cleared. Mustaphar looked at them, straightening up as he did so, no small degree of surprise covering his features. Surprise which was swiftly mastered.

His robe was a rich, burnt siene in colour, despite the coarseness of the cloth. He stared at them and as if his gaze was that of the basilisk they froze in place until it turned away. Finally after he had turned a full circle and cast those burning, black eyes onto each of them he spoke. Whatever it was he said though was incomprehensible, thought the power and majesty of his voice swept over them all and each heard in his words hints of mystery, wonder and enchantment. Then, seeing that they could not understand him he swore; at least they presumed he swore, unless harsh words were meant as greeting in some tongue he knew.

He looked at them, dry humour evident in his gaze as he glanced over the runestones placed over the ground. He ran his hand over the air which shimmered and sparkled as he brushed it. With a grin he pinched the air as if it were cloth and pulled, the stone closest to him leapt out of alignment. There was a small flash, a smell of burning ozone and he stepped through the ward, a ball of power robbed from the wardstones glowing in his hand.

The cursebreakers took a step backwards. A second later the containment shield rippled and tore apart as he thrust the glowing energy straight into it. The blue light ripped like a curtain and he was through grinning widely. Two of the cursebreakers raised their wands. With a snap of his fingers the wands were ripped from their owner's hands, he caught them easily. The others reacted with a speed which had until now been strangely lacking. Stunners flew across the room. He seemed to have no way to directly block them, instead he danced in and out among the jets of light. His staff swung in his hand and a beam of red light struck it before breaking apart and shooting towards three of his assailants. Two dodged, one didn't. Three down, six left. The two who had lost their wands had been reaching for their backups when his staff cracked them around the skull and they dropped into enchanted sleep.

A Peruvian flesh-eating curse shot past his ear as one of the enchanters decided to up the game. It hit the canvas wall of the tent which began to dissolve into thick, black, sludge. Mustaphar moved like lightning, ducking under the enchanter's wand arm he lifted the man and using him to catch a triplet of stunners hurled him into the black pool of liquid. It sucked inwards towards the body, leaving the rest of the tent untouched. The man withered, prune like, before exploding into soft dust. The sorcerer's hand rose as he twirled his staff, deflecting blasts of magic. He frowned and then with a cheery wink he curled the fingers of his left hand. The canvas sprung to life, trapping the other wizards in an instant and forcing their wands from their hands. He leant on his staff, breathing lightly.

Through the gap in the canvas where the exit had once been stepped a tall man with pale skin and chestnut hair. Mustaphar looked at him appraisingly as he offered a short bow and opened his hand to show that he carried no weapon. Mustaphar beckoned him forward and took the piece of parchment with its message scrawled in ancient Chinese from him. He looked at it for a moment in bemusement, but unable to understand its meaning he tossed it aside. Well if things weren't going to work the easy way … his hand struck out with the speed of a cobra, gripping the man's scalp. The French official, for it was he, fell to his knees whimpering with pain as Mustaphar tore through his mind. Images, thoughts, memories, languages, long buried secrets and forgotten dreams, all that made up the man poured through Mustaphar, and like a sieve he filtered out those parts he needed before releasing the hyperventilating man. The official collapsed to the ground, spasming. Mustaphar paused for a moment and then bent down till his lips were next to his victim's ear. He whispered a single sentence. The man went limp, his eyes glazed over in despair.

Mustaphar stood, surveying the wide eyed horror of his captives. His staff twisted a symbol in the air and thumped once on the ground. They fell into unconsciousness as the sleep spell washed over them. He might punish those who sought to use him, but these men were merely hired dogs, he could respect that. A smile flashed over his face as he looked at them, the smile a jovial father might have given his son, had the father in question been Henry II in 1173. Still waste not want not. One by one he perused their minds, selecting what knowledge he deemed useful. Most of it would probably fade before long, but there was always the chance he'd keep hold of some of it. Then he pressed his staff to each of their heads, removing the memory of the day's events/

Letting the spell upon the canvas fade he stepped outside the tent, feeling air upon his cheeks for the first time in millennia. It was good to be alive. The man and his overlords might have intended to use him, but the idea of testing his mettle against this self proclaimed lord was tempting. After that he could deal with those who had dared to think of controlling him. He half wondered about hiring a few of the mercenaries, but it wouldn't really be sporting to do so. After that rogue had beaten him by cheating he was quite set on fair victories, well relatively fair. The sun shone down upon him, breaking through the heavy storm clouds. He picked up a handful of the wands which they had dropped, choosing two which felt most comfortable and sticking them into his belt. Life was good. He smiled and started walking down a nearby track towards a local town. Behind him the rain continued to fall on the dig site turning it into a mire of mud.


	7. Merchants and Meddlers

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. Anyone who wants to may draw ideas from this fic.

**A/N:** Thank you very much to those who reviewed the last chapter, particularly, Bookends, Lysianda, Wulffe and the Man of Constant Sorrow. I hope you enjoy this one too.

I'm considering changing the story summary, any suggestions would be welcomed.

**Merchants and Meddlers**

_Drawing no attention is better than drawing the wrong sort. Generally the wrong sort includes murderous psychopaths, government officials and door to door salesmen._

Magical Stuttgart is like no other city upon this earth today. Some believe that is simply because it is not a part of the modern world. Long ago when it was built its creators placed it outside the normal loop of time and in a place that might have been anywhere. Indeed bears no relation to non-magical Stuttgart at all. Though at times there are strange days when parts of the muggle city fade into view around the high, limestone walls which guard the city proper. Needless to say these are merely facsimiles of the real muggle city, and are often decay as if time runs faster over them than the wizard city. Though city is perhaps too grand a term, even with a recent population boom it totals barely more than twelve thousand inhabitants, humans, goblins and dwarfs combined.

In the centre of the city, upon the Hill of Tears, stands the citadel, a towering palace which looms mountain like over the surrounding landscape. Thick walls, fifty feet high run around the summit on every side, save one and there an impassable cliff face serves as defence enough. The citadel is filled with the castle, its gardens, opera house, ball rooms, banqueting halls, baths and of course the great tower which shoots upwards by another two hundred feet. Within its walls lie the great runestones which serve as the reservoir of power which not only keeps the city safe, but prevents the time displacement from unravelling like a poorly knitted woollen jumper. Inside the rock of the citadel run kitchens, bedrooms, forges, hidden gardens of enchanted moonlight, fountains of liquid jewels, trees of crystal and an uncounted number of secret passages. On the very spur of mount lie the stables of the winged granian horses, descended from the steed of Sigurd the Dragonslayer. On the cliff face rest the apartments of the Grand Princess whose rooms look ever eastward to where it is said the Sun will rise on the last day of the city's life.

Above it all the velvet sky swims with the ever present stars of long ago and the Moon glows almost as brightly as the Sun which ought to hang there. When asked why the Sun does not grace the city with its presence the citizens will answer that the founder of Stuttgart quarrelled with the star and banished him from these skies forever.

As to where Stuttgart came from there are many theories, some say that it was the last outpost of the Atlantean Empire and the only one to survive their downfall. Maybe they are right.

Harry had been to Stuttgart once before, many, many years ago, yet the fascination of the place struck him just as forcefully as ever as he passed through the arch of wild briars which formed before him within a section of forsaken wasteland in muggle Stuttgart's outskirts. It was like stepping out of the real world and into fairyland.

Goblin vendors cried out their prices for glistening, jewel like fruit; dwarf smiths gawked finely worked bracelets and caskets of unbreakable crystal; thin, pale creatures whose name he did not know, their flesh translucent like glass before it gave way to an inner core of white crystal moved with careful grace around stalls playing fiddles, reed pipes and strange, lute like, instruments as they nodded heads of wild hair which fell about their faces like flowing water.

The air was tinged with the smells of flowers, spices and fruit. It was as if he had stepped out of a third-world country in the heart of New York. His heart caught in his chest with the same sense of awe and wonder that he had felt upon first setting eyes on Hogwarts rising majestically above the waters of the Black Lake.

He knew Tom felt it too, even through his counterpart's occlumancy barriers he could still feel that sudden breath stopping shudder of amazement, for a moment their paused unable to move forward. They were alike in some ways, he knew, Dumbledore had been right, perhaps more right than he had known. Tom had always been dangerous, but Dumbledore's instant distrust of him and instant care for Harry had perhaps done his judgement of the two of them a disservice. He shook himself free of his thoughts and cast his eyes upwards to the citadel itself.

A figure pulled at his sleeve, and Harry dragged his attention way from the city in order to absorb the language of those around him, "You look like a warrior sir, perhaps you'd be interested in my wares. Finest steel this side of," the dwarf's black eyebrows knitted together as he thought, "everywhere!" He declared with triumphant enthusiasm.

"I'm afraid you are mistaken sir, I am no warrior, and I have no time. There is business I must attend to elsewhere," Harry tried to pull away from the dwarf's grip but he was held fast, chisel like finger tips digging into his arm. For someone four feet tall the dwarf was incredibly strong. "Let me go, master dwarf. I have no times for your wares," the harsh note of command was enough to make the dwarf relax his grip and Harry wriggled away.

"Don't forget Bjorn's steel, finest there is," the dwarf called after him as he slipped away into the crowd trying to catch up with Tom and Richard. It was amazing really, how rigidly the dwarfs stuck to their culture by and large. The same Icelandic names were passed down again and again along with the hardy, metal obsessed, little psychopaths' sense of honour. The only time he'd met any who seemed to be seeking new economic avenues they'd been dressed up as cupids. He wasn't sure which he preferred, only that they were still overall in his opinion better than the big psychopaths commonly referred to as humans.

He looked around, Tom and Richard were almost out of sight, Tom's sleek, dark head bobbing around in the crowd. He set off after them, dodging around a somewhat unhealthily thin lios-alfar before swerving to avoid a small child chasing a tiny chariot which swept through the air, pulled by a score of butterflies, their wings burning a crystal blue in the starlight. Looking up he saw his companions turn into a side-street. Leaping over a bench he pushed his way to the street, only to find that it was a dead end. Save for a balcony two stories up it was blank and featureless. Huge blocks of golden limestone flawlessly fitted together with hardly any sign of seam or join between them. Washing hung overhead, drying on a line strung between the buildings.

Harry swore and kicked an cobblestone, predictably it did not move, and he only succeeded in scratching the leather of his boot and hurting his toe. He swore again. Well by the look of it the Princess knew they were in the city. On his last visit Harry had discovered from the Prince of the city, a kindly if Machiavellian old man, that the ruler could reorganise the streets at will. That he had been separated from the rest of the part was almost certainly no accident. He raised a middle finger to the blank wall, if she was anything like her predecessor the Princess was probably scrying him at that moment in order to better understand him, and if she wasn't then it at least served to alleviate his frustration. Apologies for his rudeness could always be proffered later.

He strolled back into the main street, if he was to be redirected he might as well enjoy himself. The high street wound around the acropolis of the citadel, snaking its way along through the market vendors as well as the more established shop fronts. It also happened to be one of the the three sections of the city which might be considered relatively unlikely to shift position, along with the citadel itself and the walls.

Passing under a series of the great hesperidan apple trees with their impossibly high trunks, the golden apples hanging just out of reach he stopped for a moment to feel the soft, silvery bark under his fingers. It was warm, pulsing with life and above the ever-flowering buds of white flowers filled the air with a sweet, gentle scent, not dissimilar to that of some roses. Harry half closed his eyes, basking in the peace of the avenue. Vendors kept away from this part of the street and the leaves left the sound of the market stalls muffled as they hummed in the soft breezes. Above him wind chimes whistled with mournful and hollow sounds whilst others struck high notes of silver sound from one another as they swung among the trees.

Harry stayed still, looking from side to side as he stood by the trees. His eyes peering into the corner of the street and into the shadows thrown by the door ways. For a few moments he had been certain that someone was watching him, but there was no one in sight. Not that that meant they couldn't be under an invisibility cloak. He drew his wand and cast a handful of the more paranoid detection charms, the sort which told you if there were any invisible beings human or otherwise nearby, if there were animagi within fifty meters, and even one which told you if another version of you was watching you. Hermione had of course designed counters to most of them, but it was hardly likely that anyone else would know them. That left, of course, the Princess or someone else scrying on him, but it was unlikely that anyone save the Princess could punch through the wards against scrying in the city, and there was nothing more he could do against it without remaining in a fixed location.

At last he left the street of the apple blossom and moved back into the noise of the market. Harry tried to dodge to the side as a slim, dapper looking man with fastidiously neat black robes trimmed in burgundy silk approached him, but it was already too late.

"Excuse me sir," the man began with an unctuous smile. "Would you care to look over our shop?" He gestured to a tall elegant building with an understated sign above the door: _Melonie's Mysteries_. "All our products are guaranteed to spice up your love life."

Harry gave the man that would have sent most demi-gods running in terror. It had no effect whatsoever, the man continued to smile, unfazed.

"No."

"Come now sir, you wouldn't want to become stuck in a rut ..."

"Either move out of my way or I will ensure you never have a use for a single one of your products again," Harry stated, slowly and clearly, staring levelly into the man's eyes. He tried to step around the man only to be blocked again.

"Nothing I haven't heard before sir. At least take this free sample, a single hair given with consent for a polyjuice potion. All perfectly legal I assure you," he stepped up to Harry and pressed a small phial into his coat pocket wrapped up in a flyer, "just come back if you want the potion to go with it!" He called out after Harry as he was finally simply pushed aside.

Harry strode on fuming, repressing the urge to go back and cover the salesman in enough jinxes to make him as close to a slow worm as a human could get while still retaining self-awareness. He looked around for a bin for the phial, but as there were none in sight he simply pushed the small tube with its single ash blonde hair deeper into the pocket of his coat.

The citadel loomed ahead on its hill. How far it was until he reached the summit was impossible to say. The feeling of someone watching him was growing more acute, but in the crowd it was impossible to tell. He turned off into a side street, an arched roof stretching ahead over the narrow passage, turning it into a tunnel. Cobblestones gleamed underfoot, reflecting the light from either end. Footsteps followed him and he dodged round a corner into a courtyard ringed by a cloister like colonnade before ducking into a small shop on his right, bending low to avoid the lintel of the tiny doorway. A bell jangled over the door as he entered. There was no one in sight in the shop which appeared to be filled with bits and pieces of brick-a-brack. Outside the footsteps passed by. There was a faint smell of fireworks and old mothballs which hung about the air

From the back of the shop he could hear voices, "They refused to move us back onto the high street then?" One cawed a note of sympathetic disappointment in the speaker's tone clearly audible.

"Yes. Bloody prejudice against goblins, that's what it is. They just want us to work selling fried mole-rats or something," the second voice grumbled, Harry winced, it sounded somewhat akin to a man with a heavy cold who was trying to speak with razors in his mouth.

"We could petition the Princess ..." voice number one suggested doubtfully.

Harry glanced around uneasily at the shop, he was growing increasingly uncomfortable listening to the conversation. He coughed loudly, focusing his attention on a long, leaf shaped, obsidian, dagger whose edges gleamed as if touched with water. The note beside it, written in a cursive hand read: _Sacrificial dagger of the High Priest of Mork_ _in the fourth century of the Goblin Calender (replica)_, the word "replica" was added in a different, more tentative hand as if the writer were not quite sure. The dagger did look _very _deadly. Harry shivered and turned away, coming to a halt as he met the beady, black, eyes of a goblin with wrinkled, mottled skin the colour of whey and the brand of an exile upon his brow.

"Can I help you?" If it was meant to be a helpful question it was unfortunate that it sounded more like a death threat. If it was a death threat Harry decided that he should leave the shop quickly, very quickly. That dagger was _sharp_.

"Oh … I was just browsing," he replied while trying to look anywhere but at the goblin's teeth. It was then he noticed the large raven who had also entered the main room of the shop and had just hopped onto the counter tilting it's head to inspect Harry like a piece of carrion.

"Lovely, lovely. Be careful, but feel free to point out anything you want to buy," the raven croaked with a passing effort at a friendly, engaging, tone of voice.

Harry tried not to consider how many talking ravens there might be and whether he'd ever get the chance to ask a raven to say "nevermore". It was probably a bad thing to ask. While Harry was struggling with his curiosity, which he was really beginning to feel could have given the proverbial cat a run for its money, the raven shot glances of annoyance at the goblin.

"Blood crust and I are at your service," it announced formally.

"And I at yours Herr Raven," Harry replied with automatic politeness. When in someone else's home it is the done thing to be polite, "Might we speak in English? My German is not good." Away from the busy street and all the open mind's Harry's new-found, borrowed would have been more accurate, knowledge was rapidly slipping from his mind as rain off a tiled roof.

"Certainly," replied the raven with a formal bob of his head, "I am quite able to speak English."

The conversation behind Harry resumed as he turned away into the shop, though this time in what might have been halting gobbledygook (at least it was halting on the raven's part) If it had not been for the lurker who Harry was reasonably confident still waited outside he would have been pleased to browse for hours. Tiny, spinning tops with strange runes on them spun without faltering in corners, forever missing other objects by minuscule fractions. A sailing boat of flowers circled the room pursued by shadow wolves whose boxes lay open on a top shelf. A deck of Marsailles cards lay upon a slowly turning table, two cards, _L'Empereur _and the _Knight of Wands _upturned.

Harry paused and reached out, seeking the prescence of any other mind, the raven's and the goblins were there, utterly unintelligible and alien. He never got further, his mind snapped backwards leaving him blinking away spots of light from behind his eyes and his head dizzy from the sudden backlash. Encountering minds alien to one's own is not a pleasant experience for a legilimens. He turned down a small aisle in the shop, glancing to his right and left. There were a handful of books, his eyes scanned the titles of a couple of them: _Words of Power: Languages and the Keys to Magic_, by S. Hawk; _Manfred and Other Poems_ by Lord Byron. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then he saw it. Upon a small, concave mirror lay a glass eyeball with an electric blue iris. It swivelled to look at him and he half jumped backwards, the stone window frame bringing him up short, his foot tangling in a wicker basket. He steadied himself on the wall, pulling his foot out of the basket, which fortunately seemed to have nothing inside.

The eye was unmistakable. Even after over a hundred and twenty years since he had last seen it the memory was burnt into his mind. Mad-Eye Moody, and the Battle of the Seven Potters. The turning point of the war in some ways. The moment when Harry had turned from the path he had expected himself to follow and decided to fight, and not to give ground. To do everything in his power to win.

* * *

_July 27__th__ 1997 above Little Whinging_

"Sectumsem …" Snape's cry was silenced forever as Remus Lupin's blasting curse caught him in the throat, crushing his wind pipe. In an airborne battle, without eye contact even his indisputably incredible skills at occlumancy had not been enough to save him.

Harry stared in shock as the man he hated more than Voldemort himself plummeted out of sight forever. Then a green jet of light flew over his ear and he dived into a barrel roll, dodging blasts with ease, diving straight downwards presenting the smallest target for his attackers. Lupin followed, barely keeping up.

They surged away from the Death Eaters whipping through a wood at high speed as Harry made turns around tree trunks at angles so shallow that leaves occasionally brushed his face. Lupin, though not nearly as skilled on the broom kept up most of the time.

"Harry," Lupin called, his voice hoarse with exhaustion as he shot over the branch of a huge oak, a stray twig drawing blood, "slow down, the Death Eater's may have flown over the wood, we're outside the restrictions the Ministry placed. If you just slow down I'll side-along with you."

Harry nodded and as he caught sight of the end to the trees, wide, flat fields visible beyond their bounds he slowed for a moment allowing Lupin to draw level, they clasped hands and spun in the air, vanishing with a crack only to appear metres away from the wards of the safe-house. The Death Eaters were nowhere in sight. Their momentum carried them on through the wards and then braking they spiralled down to the earth.

Lupin staggered as he landed his face ashen. Harry caught his elbow, supporting him as they walked slowly towards the friendly lights of the Burrow.

"Remus, are you okay? Are you splinched?"

Lupin shook his head, "I'm fine Harry," he said, his exhaustion showing in his voice, "I'm sorry. I haven't killed anyone since the first war. It … it isn't easy. If I could I would have stunned him, let him live anything … but it was either him or us."

Harry almost felt that he should protest that they couldn't sink to the level of the Death Eaters, but to do so would break the man who was his last link to his parents.

"It's okay Remus. You did what you had to," he steeled himself, "sometimes the end justifies the means. I'm just sorry that you were the one who had to take him down. Do you want to stay out here for a little?"

"No, no. We must leave Molly worrying, she'll be a wreck as it is if any of the others have told her about the Death Eaters waiting for us."

They turned towards the house, hoping against hope that the others were to arrive safely as a white owl circled down from above. It was to be a long night as reports that Bill and Fleur fallen came in and they treated the wounds Hagrid had taken defending George. Mad-Eye turned up, half crazed and missing the trademark eye which he had been forced to use to block a killing curse.

* * *

Harry shook himself out of his memories and looked back at the small orb. How it had come here, to this place he had no idea. Still it was a relic of a past time, and relics are hard to pass by. Picking it up he looked for a price, but there was none, only a hairline fracture running over its side. It had been too much to hope that it would have survived unharmed, there was always even the possibility that it simply resembled Mad-Eye's eye in any case. He held it up to his own eye. The glass was black and opaque, nothing showed. He turned around holding it up to the light of the window in case that made a difference, but there was no change. It was then that he saw them, high black boots, pacing back and forward in the square beyond the shop, a plain maroon robe swishing across them.

He crept closer to the window, but the eye sparked in his hand and his attention was dragged away from the figure outside as he let out a yelp. He let the eyeball drop, only just catching it with his other hand before it hit the floor, he held it gingerly between forefinger and thumb. There was then some magic left in the eye, he would have to see about trying to repair it.

Making his way back to the counter he found the raven waiting alone, Bloodcrust had disappeared. Perhaps the given the sounds of violent movement he was dealing with something in the back room.

"Hello, again," he began before holding out the glass eye for the raven's inspection, "I was just wondering how much this is?"

With a caw the raven reached out a claw and plucked the eyeball from his hand studying it for a few seconds as it revolved slowly, "Well it _was _a fine piece, very magical in its time. But to be perfectly honest I'm surprised it hasn't been thrown out," the raven added with surprising candour. "I'll give it to you for a crown," he held it steady in his claw.

"An entire crown for something you think should have been thrown out as rubbish?" Harry asked, though without much fervour, he was haggling for the sake of it.

The raven sighed, "It may be rubbish, but it will provide a good base for enchantment. If you can remove the current spells that is. That in itself is rare."

"I'll give you half a crown for it," Harry suggested.

The discussion went on for a little longer until they finally agreed a price and Harry handed over a dozen, worn pieces of silver he had liberated from Richard the night before and shaking the raven's claw he turned to leave.

"Thank you for stirring up the dust in here, come back any time!" The raven cawed as he turned to the door with a nod of thanks and stepped back into the street. Behind him the bell jangled and the shop faded into the wall of the the square, heading off to greener pastures in some other part of the city. Unfortunately it took the rest of the passage back to the main street with it. The only way out lay through the small square. Ivy and vines ran up the pillars of the colonnade, young grapes hanging amid wide, dark, leaves.

The stragner was waiting for him, leaning idly against a column, the golden moonlight striking off his bent head. There was no wand in his hand and Harry did not draw his. Spells in such an enclosed space could easily rebound from the walls and kill them both. The stones and climbing tendrils formed an impassable wall without door or window, save for a single narrow exit at one corner, up a small flight of golden steps. In the centre of the courtyard lay a small fountain with a piece of bronze in the shape of a winding flame. Water rose around it in twisting tongues, flickering like fire, spray dancing upwards turning a burning silver in the light of the stars. The fountain stood a little raised above the cobbles and the two of them came face to face across it.

The man had soft reddish-brown hair which, short though it was, tangled over his brow in an unwashed rat's nest. His face was long, stained by the sun and his nose slice down it in a long, sharp, line. His eyes, which lay deep set under dark brows were a deep, earthy, brown. He spoke in the clipped precise English of a man who while well educated has not had enough practice to become at ease with a language.

"Hello, Mr Potter."

Harry paused, he had half hoped the man would be a random thug out for a spot of quick cash. No such luck though, his life simply didn't run in that sort of way, people had to have a bone to pick with _him_, personally. He sighed, "I'm sorry? Mr Who?"

The man scowled, he obviously did not consider Harry to be worth his time, "Do not pretend to be ignorant Mr Potter. I know who you are. My contacts are most thorough."

"Fine, so suppose I _am _this Potter bloke. What do you want to tell him?" They circled each other around the fountain, Harry carefully stepping onto only dry stones, if he managed to keep the man talking long enough he might have a chance to make a break for the alley.

"We know why you are here Potter. We know why you've been sent. Your interference is not welcome. Leave now and you may be allowed to keep your face intact," he threw back the cloak which had lain over his shoulders to reveal a long, ivory handled, flick knife at his belt along side his wand. He drew it and slowly teased the blade open. It sounded as if he were reading from a script, Harry thought absently.

"Ah, and should I choose to stay you'll use that on me?" Harry asked, prempting the man's next line while he privately cursed himself for failing to memorise any apparition points within the city on his last visit. His eyes glanced towards the passageway. With a sinking feeling he realised it was too far, he'd be hit in the back with a spell before he made it.

"If I have to. I do deplore violence though, so if you give me your solemn vow that upon your life you will not look into the … holidays our mutual friends have been taking, then yes I will let you got," he gave a crooked smile. It was not pleasant. It was was the smile of a man who enjoys causing pain.

"I can't do that," Harry had given up all thought of simply running for it at the man's suggestion that he should abandon the victims. Abandon _more_ victims. "I have to thank _you_ for this chat though. It has at least told me I'm dealing with wizards and not some helpless animal without a plan."

The man smirked and drew his knife, flicking the blade out, "I don't think that is going to matter much soon." He surged forward around the fountain, the knife held blade downwards, clicked into position, ready to slash and block rather than stab. Harry stood his ground, spacing his feet carefully.

The blade moved in a flurry of movement, slicing down towards Harry's neck. Harry leaned out of the way before stepping backwards. The knife slashed the air where his throat had been moments before. The man grinned savagely and swiped the knife back up in an arc which came closer than Harry had expected forcing him to deflect the blow with his arm, leaving a long, shallow scratch on his coat. Harry frowned, he was fond of that coat.

He retreated sideways, watching his own movements as well as those of his opponent. Calculating, the man was fast, his thin, wiry build working to his advantage, but he had no idea of how to fight effectively, he was little more than an enthusiastic amateur. Harry doubted that he'd ever even used a knife like this before. Delicate spell casting seemed more his style.

The man flipped his grip on the knife, and advanced again, crouching low. Harry edged sideways until he was standing inches away from the edge of the open square, beside the colonnade.

"Is this really necessary? Why don't you simply walk away, you've given your message, go and report back like a good little lapdog to whoever you are serving," Harry suggested, spreading his arms wide as to offer peace.

The man took Harry's apparent distraction as an opportunity and surged forward, dagger held out in front of him like a spear. Harry sidestepped again, restricting his movements to practical workman like dodges. The man skidded to a halt and swung the blade towards Harry, but it was too late. His broadside was exposed and Harry's hand drove mercilessly into his solar plexus leaving him to collapse to the ground. Amazingly he managed to keep the hand holding the knife upraised towards Harry who simply rolled his eyes and gripped the man's wrists in a crushing grip, slowly forcing him to drop the blade.

Harry's opponent tried to rise, still gasping for air as his fingers were slowly prised open, but Harry simply hooked his leg around and delivered a light blow to the back of his knee, sending him crashing back down onto the cobbles. Then in one swift motion he grabbed the man's arm and smashed his elbow against the pillar, using the leverage from his grip on his assailant's wrist to crack the bone. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers. Harry brought his boot crushing down on his foe's left hand, grinding down on the bones and the howl of pain was replaced by an incoherent gurgle. There was no joy of the fight in Harry's expressionless face as he looked down at his attacker and kicked away the knife.

Switching his foot to the man's right hand he fished his own holly wand from its sheath and cast the full body-bind curse. The man's limbs snapped together against his body and tears of pain gathered in his eyes.

"I am not going to kill you. I don't like killing, but remember this I will find you and whoever sent you and I will find out what you are up to. If you don't stop then I _will_ stop you, and if I have to kill you then so be it. Now I'm going to give you a chance to tell me everything, and then you are going to leave. If I ever have _any _reason to regret letting you go and we meet again you will die. Comprende?" Harry finished, slipping into Spanish. He stepped backwards his wand still pointing at the man and released the body-bind on his attacker's head.

It was as the agonised grin slid over the man's face that Harry realised his mistake.

"Random. Iron. Left," the man winked out of sight with the blue flash of a portkey.

"Damn," Harry shut his eyes in frustration. His hand ached where he had hit the man. He needed to get back in shape. There was a sick feeling in his stomach from the sight of another in pain. He swallowed, feeling his stomach churn. He sat weakly on the edge of the fountain as the adrenaline faded leaving him feeling weak and shaky. At last he stood and left the square, slowly climbing up the stairway.

* * *

An hour later Harry finally sauntered out from the maze of streets to climb the last stretch of open road which lay before the gates of the citadel. He felt remarkably relaxed on top of the world even. Fighting per se had never given him the the thrill which he knew Tom derived from it, but simultaneously someone trying to kill him _did_ make him feel gloriously alive after the experience itself.

The gates rose up before him, two awe inspiring slabs of beaten, untarnished, bronze; twelve inches thick; dwarf forged; strong enough to resist even the white hot fires of a dragon's maw, and set between thick pillars of unbreakable obsidian. They gleamed under the unearthly light of the setting moon, the coat of arms of the lady of the city plain upon them, black and unmoving: a raven, wings spread above a crescent moon. Beneath the thirty foot high, gothic arch the gates rested with solid determination, a clear demonstration of the power, riches and strength of the princes of Stuttgart. You do not mess with someone whose front doors weigh more than most houses.

The flagstones were solid and dry underfoot as Harry strode towards the two guards at the gate. They were both clad in simple, kimono like robes, wands stashed at their belts on one side, long, sweeping swords upon the other. Neither of them was particularly tall, perhaps a few inches shorter than Harry, although the slope of the hill made it hard to tell. Yet there was a still, collected air of calm, deadly menace about them. They eyed Harry as he approached, their hands resting nonchalantly by their wands.

"Hello there," Harry called out as he came closer, smiling harmlessly up at them, ruffling a hand through his already wild mop of hair, "I was wondering if you could help me." He spoke in English, not risking the use of legilimancy on guards who were presumably trained against such attacks.

"Good afternoon," one of the guards replied, his voice soft despite the clipped military tones, "The citadel is not open to the public today. If you are seeking directions we may be able to help."

Harry strolled closer, rubbing his neck with one hand and looking sideways across the city as it lay spread out below, "Well, luckily for me I'm not quite one of the public. At least not in the usual sense. I'm here in a diplomatic capacity, though you might not believe it. My … my companions and I were separated and we have had some difficulties on the road, but I believe I am expected. My name is Harry Potter."

The guards, or at least the one who seemed to understand looked sceptical, "I do not know of any such person being expected, we were not informed. Where are your papers even? How do we know you are this Harry Potter?"

Harry spread his hands wide, as if to show his lack of identification, as he walked closer. He stopped, close enough to almost shake hands with either of them, "I have no papers, there is no proof save my word, my face and my wand. Still though check it. _Don't _make a mistake."

The guard frowned for a moment before gesturing to his companion to keep an eye on Harry as he withdrew a small, glass, flask from his robes. Inside burnt a blue flame shaped like a bluebell. He tapped the flask with a finger and spoke a series of muffled words. The flames danced and changed colour like water run through with green ink, turning a spiralling turquoise-green. For a few moments they waited, Harry glancing up at the sheer walls, and the jutting gargoyles which peeped out high above, while the soft-spoken guard's friend fixed him with a cool stare which revealed nothing. Then the visage of a man with a serious, lined face appeared in the flames and he and the guards shared a few words, then the flames shifted once more returning to their original state and the man's face faded. The guard pocketed the flask and turned back to Harry.

"You will stay here. Wait. The steward will be down shortly."

Harry stood in front of the gate awkwardly. It was strange, to try and enter a castle without spells flying and the cries of battle around him. A few minutes later a small man with nut brown skin, and slate grey hair which was gently receding from his brow walked _through_ the gates, there was, Harry thought something of the look of a thrush about him in his white and brown robe. Behind him the gates wavered as sunlit mist before reforming into solid bronze once more.

He clasped his hands together, and although he did not smile with his mouth his whole body seemed to exude satisfaction, "Wonderful, wonderful. Splendid to see you here Mr Potter. I've been sent down to meet you by the Princess herself. Oh don't worry Baum, you can stop scowling, he was expected, and watched for, this is no other. You needn't accompany us." The guards watched Harry cautiously, though with the steward offering free passage they could do nothing more.

The steward waved Harry forward and handed him a slim, bronze, token, "Place this against the gates and walk swiftly. You will come to no harm," and with that he simply stepped backwards and the metal folded around him, turning to a haze of metallic mist once more.

Harry shrugged to the guards as if to point out to them that it really wasn't his fault that a suspicious character such as he had just been allowed entrance. He stepped forward and flicked the bronze disc into the air, then catching it he pressed the cool metal to the gate in one smooth motion. The bronze dissolved around him as he stepped through and for a second the world was replaced by shimmering mist. Then he was out on the other side and the breath he hadn't known he was holding fled from between his lips.

"Do you need a moment? Some people find going through the gate a little disorientating," his guide remarked kindly.

"No, I'm okay," Harry licked his lips before grimacing and wiping them, trying to scrub away the faint metallic taste. A pleasure to meet you, thugh I'm afraid you have the advantage Herr ..."

"Doctor Gonzalo William Merkel. My family come from all over Europe."

"A doctorate? How unusual, I've never met a wizard with one," Harry remarked as the steward began to lead him through the entrance hall, the poor lighting revealing normanesque pillars supporting a vaulted, shadowy ceiling a hundred feet above. It smelt of cold stone and faded incense. Their footsteps echoed in the hollow air as they passed down the handful of steps into the basin like depression which formed the majority of the hall's floor.

Doctor Merkel chuckled dryly, an unnerving noise as it ran round the hall splitting into a thousand thousand voices which whispered back in small, thrush like voices as they laughed, "I see you hear it, yes? This hall is call the Hall of Voices by many. As for the doctorate, well I am no wizard, merely and unawakened.. I have a from Oxford. I quite enjoyed the muggle side of your country, although the cooking really _is _terrible. That and the inexplicable sense that they think they deserve to rule the world." His voice sprang from the stones, reverberating around them as if speaking from a great distance.

"Well, you have have to take pride in past glories when the present looks a tad bleak," Harry commented wryly. They turned off into a side passage at the end of the hall, harsh, bare, stone giving way to delicate tapestries and wall hangings. Threads mixed together to reveal plunging ships on stormy seas; a peacock rising from the ocean, flames streaming from it as it rose like a star into the night, and finally a ship on a wide, flat, waveless, sea upon which the the sun was gradually sinking while two figures, one in red, one in black played an indistinct board game on the deserted deck.

"You know, you've got some kind of creepy tapestries here," Harry observed as they passed another of a tall woman in white standing before two dark monoliths as a grey sky hung low above.

"We've had some kind of creepy lords."

"I guessed. At least it is a relief the lords were responsible, I'd be more disturbed if the castle were just creating these of its own accord."

"Well I can I promise that you have seen nothing yet. The way we're going … the things there are so old that the castle might well have grown them," said Doctor Merkel, his voice holding none of the satisfaction at Harry's reaction which would have made the thought of what was to come ever so much easier to cope with. Harry shivered.

"Where are we going exactly, by the way? Because if it is to see the Princess I'd really appreciate the chance to freshen up first," said Harry, glancing up and down the passage for any sign of where they were to go.

"Oh no. Her Highness is much too busy to see you now. She will send word when the time comes. For now I shall simply show you to your apartments. They adjoin to those of your companions. Once there I would not try to wander away without help. The castle can be … confusing to the most experienced and here there are no helpful portraits as at your Hogwarts," he hesitated, "indeed if you _do _decide to wander please stay away from the portraits at all costs."

Harry pursed his lips as he bit back his irritation at the thought of being kept caged, "Wonderful. I might see about renting rooms, should it not prove against her Highness' wishes."

"I'm sure you may bring it up with her when you meet," the steward's murmur held something of a note of mild reproval.

There was a lull in the conversation and the steward pushed through a section of wall which wobbled like jelly before sucking him through. Harry grimaced at the slurping noise which had accompanied the steward's disappearance and followed suit, pushing through the wall. At first it resisted and then suddenly it started to drag him through, with a sucking pop he was one the other side. He gulped and flattened himself close, against the wall. They were on a walkway, perhaps three feet across without railings. The wind whistled over his face, tugging at his hair, below, three hundred, maybe a thousand feet below lay the base of the cliff on which the citadel crouched.

"You could have warned me!" Harry yelped, if he had come out any faster at all … he let the thought drop away.

"Sorry?" Merkel called back, he was already several feet away at the base of a long stairway formed form huge stones poking out of the side of the castle wall like scaffolding. Harry opened his mouth to yell again and shut it. It was hardly going to help to complain. _Note to self, be careful when going through doors._

He set off after the steward, hopping, almost sprinting up the old steps, their surface worn smooth by rain, wind and feet. Beneath him a purple vista of heather covered hills panned away into a huge, dark, forest, which eventually blurred into the sky. He looked away, trotting up the steps and the landscape shifted, heather replaced by golden fields of corn and wheat, red poppies standing out like spots of blood among the sheaves. He looked up and his footsteps faltered as disorientated he stumbled in the middle of a step. For a moment in felt as if the world was tilting wildly, his foot began to slip on the smooth stone and the castle wall leaned away from him. Then his foot came down on the stair and he pulled himself onwards, the world righted itself. He looked up, faint eyes, the colour of unripe walnuts, looked concernedly into his own.

"Are you quite alright?"

Harry let out a carefully even breath, "Don't worry, I'm fine. Just slipped a little."

"Ah … well. Take care. It is not far now and it would not do to fall," the steward turned away and continued on up the steps to a landing before a locked doorway. He spun in a circle three times widdershins before giving seven precisely spaced knocks on the door, it swung inwards smoothly.

Harry made his way up the steps carefully and stepped under the arch, trying to ignore his frustration at the steward's reaction. The door closed with a groan and they were left in darkness. Torches flickered into life, flames sprouting from sockets in the walls over which ran deep carvings in a strange, sombre, stone. A man riding through tall trees, a boy clasped in his arms, pursued by a tall, shadowy figure, branching antlers sprouting from his head. The leaping flames swam over the images making them dance and shift under the shadow's touch.

"I see what you meant about the other ones just being the start," Harry observed as his eyes trailed over the carvings. He stood still, unable to drag way his gaze, he had not seen them during his last visit to the city, "You say they grew with the castle? They are beautiful."

The steward paused, looking at him, his mouth twisting in distaste, "Beautiful? I have always found them eerie and little else. More inclined to chill the spine than enliven the heart. I'm afraid I was speaking with a touch more rhetoric than accuracy, I simply don't know who made it, or when. I believe it is a representation of an old story, a very old story. It is nothing particularly special though, beyond its unknown history, perhaps we might move on ..."

It was clear that he did not want to linger and Harry followed him down the corridor, still glancing at the walls as the carvings gave way to others. Unlike the tapestries there was no sense that they were part of a greater story, merely snapshots, captured from either story, the past, or maybe simply the artist's imagination. Three men waiting on a bridge, facing a cowled figure; a king lying on a battlefield, a shattered sword clasped in his hand, nine faceless figures gathering around him.

With a final backwards glance at the carvings Harry left the corridor behind. The way now was not long, a few twists and turns which slipped from Harry's mind and which he could never quite remember. Finally they came to the end of a hall with diamond paned windows which gazed down over the city on its left. Though what part of the metropolis was display he could not tell through the old, drooping, glass. The steward came to a halt and with a flourish tugged back a door, sliding it into the wall.

The room beyond was lavishly furnished with chairs, dressers, paintings and carpets, all of which bore a certain age about them. The sort of age which accompanies furniture, which, while it may not be particularly comfortable, is certainly worth enough that you worry about trying to sit comfortably for fear of breaking something and losing several thousand galleons. Happily wizards rarely suffer such fears due to the kind mercies of cushioning charms, and other such enchantments. Yet, the _smell_ of such articles still struck Harry, it created the olfactory impression of pure and even unassuming wealth. The sort of wealth which simply exists and which its owners think nothing of.

"Your rooms, Mr Potter. The door on the left leads to your bedroom, dressing room and bathroom. The door on the right leads to your companions' rooms. If you wish to eat or desire a drink simply leave a note on that table," he pointed to a small silver table with clawed feet, "and the house elves will bring it up along with any other item you might desire. I need to be on my way now, I'm afraid. This trip has taken me away from my other duties, sometimes I am not quite sure how her Highness expects me take care of everything I do take care of without a time-turner. For the moment then goodbye."

Harry who had been examining the room turned to thank him, but Merkel had already left the room, the door sliding shut behind him. Harry walked over to the bay windows which were lying open, blowing the scent of roses from the trailing tendrils on the wall beyond into the room. The windows were set in limestone frames, just wide enough to climb through. He leant through the gap, staring down at the yawning void beneath. His glasses slipped and fell away, only for his hand to click out, quick as a preying mantis and snatch them from the air.

"Oh, _please_ don't jump," requested a somewhat bored voice from behind him.

Harry turned around slowly, replacing the glasses on his nose. Tom was leaning against the connecting door between their rooms slowly trimming his nails. His hair was freshly washed and his cheeks were still rosy from shaving.

"Riddle."

"I _am_ sorry to disturb you, but if the day should come for you to die then I would prefer that it should at the very least be by my hand."

"Fair enough. As long as I get to take you with me. I hear the road to Hell is a long one. I'd like some company on the way," Harry retorted, flexing his fingers as he turned back to survey the view. "Where's our friend?"

"Taking a call. Probably from Malfoy to see if we're dead yet," Tom advanced into the room, looking around. "It seems they've given us all identical rooms then. Pity, I was rather hoping that mine would be larger than yours."

"Inferiority complex Riddle?"

"Hardly, I just deserve more space."

Harry snorted, "I think you might be a touch paranoid about Richard you know," Harry suggested as he looked out at the dusky sky. The stars were slowly dimming into darkness, turning the violet air a deep, velvety, black, while the lanterns which had begun to light the city below lent the streets the appearance of a lake reflecting the night sky. Darkness was spreading fast, perhaps the princess believed night would serve to keep her guests quiet where the day would not, he mused, or then again maybe _he_ was being too paranoid.

"Harry, Harry, Harry. I _know_ how these things work. Malfoy sent him to keep us in line and to keep him informed. If we are really, extra specially lucky he's here to kill us too. To think otherwise is unreasonably hopeful. To be perfectly frank I don't personally see a need for him any more ..." Tom trailed off leaving the implicit suggestion hanging

"Better the devil you know, I'd say, and I have to say I really doubt that he's an assassin. If he weren't here, someone else would be, and that one might be worse. We'll be better able to keep a low profile this way too. Yes, he probably is spying on us, but this way at least we can keep him in our sights," Harry pointed out.

"Hmm, maybe, but he'll be able to keep us in his ..." Tom muttered unconvinced. "What took you so long to get here? Did you manage to forget that you were heading for the massive castle?" A snide note of contempt had slid into his voice.

"Not exactly. A few things distracted me along the way. Anyway, I guess I'll see you later," he reached into his pocket and tugged, letting a think disk of metal slide out on to the windowsill, waiting just long enough for Tom's bemused "what?" reached his ears before he dropped backwards out of the window still laughing.

Tom lunged towards him, perhaps seeking to catch him, but he was too slow. Harry's laughter was still ringing in Tom's ears when a second later he shot shot up past the window once more, swooping to and fro on the broom he had pulled from his jacket pocket as he fell.

At the window Tom smiled thinly, "Bastard," he muttered softly. He turned away, leaving the boy to his play. He could have joined him in the air, but the _delight_ of continuing the conversation was not worth the effort required to maintain the flying charm.

Harry watched as Tom stalked back across the room and through the door to his own apartments. The man was like a leech. It was as if he'd decided that following Harry around and talking to him was the only worthwhile thing he could do. Harry wondered how long it would take for their oath to pick up on one of them trying to bore the other to death. He shrugged and pushed the broom downwards as he spotted a night falcon diving earthwards, racing towards a pigeon as the archetypal city bird winged its way homewards for the night. It had been a bitter disappointment when his animagus form had proven not to be some form of falcon, or indeed almost any bird (he had had a moment of worry when performing the tranformation for the first time that he would end up as a dodo).

The wind slashed across his cheeks as he accelerated downwards, pressed close to the wood of the broom. His glasses were pressed back against his face, digging into his skin. Above him the crimson light of the beacon he'd left behind to identify his room flashed dully. The falcon swooped in, its talons smashing into the pigeon, breaking the spine in one swift motion. Harry swerved out of the way as the limp grey body was launched upwards in a slow spiral by the impact, droplets of blood spiralling out.

A thought struck him and reluctantly he turned the broom upwards, soaring into the sky towards the outline of the castle's brooding form. He shot up and away from the smells and sounds of the city, the last wafts of roasting pork teasing him with the hint of a taste. Slowing to a crawl he worked his way along, past his own apartments and towards those of Tom and Richard, only to discover that despite the connecting doors the castle seemed to be arranged in such a way that where there should have been bay windows, rooms and in fact simply part of the building there was only a gap between turrets and a clear space above. It seemed that eavesdropping on Richard would have to wait until another day.

The night was young; the sky was empty, and he had a lot of free time. He smiled.

* * *

_Deep in the Black Forest:_

The man tensed, his jaw clenched shut, rigid as steel as one of the acolytes slowly wrapped his shattered hand in bandages, soaked in bone restorative. He could feel the itching beginning to burn as the bones started to reknit. Grimacing he forced himself to sit up, waving the man who had been tending to him away. He would not give in to the pain. He would not give into the anger.

He had lost. He had been humiliated. By a _half-blood_. That needed to be remedied, it could not be left to stand. There was only one option of course. He would have to improve. He closed his eyes searching through his memories. There were a few rituals which might be advantageous. They were risky, but then when was anything worthwhile safe? Rituals were easy in any case, they came naturally. He'd simply never seen the need for these ones before. He smiled before wincing. Moving anything for the moment seemed painful. Still pain was for the weak minded.

"Hortencia, bring me _The Matrix_ of Master Absolem, and a reading stand. Once you've done that look up any rituals to enhance strength or toughness which require human sacrifice. We can afford that easily at the moment," he restrained the whimper of pain until the petite, blonde, woman had left the room.

His orders had been been clear and precise, and while he had muffed up their execution he suspected that his encounter with Potter would serve the same purpose anyway. It was not as if he had been meant to kill him in any case. Now the question was how long they had before he found them. Hopefully he wouldn't manage it before the Blood Moon. If he did … well there was always a solution to a problem. He was confident that he would find the answer if he needed to.

A ripple of pain ran through him and his face contorted, a tear leaking down his cheek. Killing Potter had just become personal. He hoped to God, the Devil and everything in between that The Other One as his followers called the unknown hunter didn't get him first.

Hortencia returned bearing a large book, bound in white leather which definitely was not not made from calves. He shut the pain out of his mind and concentrated. The book flipped open and the pages moved as if blown by the wind. The page he had sought lay open, the words standing out in a clear, precise, bold hand. Thankfully the book's creator had been insane enough not to layer the tome with spells to force the reader to _make _the words stay still or flay their eyeballs. It made for surprisingly easy reading in fact.

"Thank you,Hortencia. Please go and feed our pets. We will send them out hunting tomorrow, so not too much. A slight change to the usual procedure though: bottle the souls of any wizards, as normal; but keep the muggles alive. I may need them."

The woman nodded, her fair hair falling over her face in dirty knots as she did so. A beautiful woman, he mused, if only she had better personal hygiene.

Settling back the man who intended to see Europe in flames began to read.


End file.
